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POEMS. 


POEMS 


BT 


MRS.    FOLLEN, 

AUTHOR   OP   "married  LIFE,"  *' SKEPTIC,"   "  WELL-SPENT  HOUR," 
Sec.  &C. 


BOSTON: 
WILLIAM  CROSBY  &  COMPANY. 

1839. 


fi"-3 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1839* 

BY    CHARLES    POLLEN, 

in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


PRINTED  BY  WILLIAM  A.  HALL  &  CO. 


TO     THE     FRIENDS, 
WHOSE    AFFECTION    HAS    CALLED    FORTH    MOST    OF    THESE 

POEMS, 

THIS     LITTLE     VOLUME 

IS 

DEDICATED. 


ms^sme 


CONTENTS. 


Page 
Nahanl,         -.- 13 

Sachem's  Hill,  .        .        -    ' 15 

Lines  to  two  Friends, 18 

*^  Flow  on,  thou  shining  River," 21 

Lines  on  Nonsense,       --------23 

The  Pin,  Needle,  and  Scissors,  -----         25 

To  a  Humming-Bird, 30 

To  a  Friend,  with  a  Wreath  of  Amaranths,       -        -        -         32 

On  the  Death  of  a  beautiful  Girl, 33 

Winter  Scenes  in  the  Country, 34 

The  Berkshire  Hills, 37 

Lines  for  a  young  Lady's  Album, 39 

Mount  Auburn  in  Autumn, -40 

Charley  and  his  Father,      ----._.         42 

Nancy's  Brook, ---45 

To  a  beautiful  Girl,    -------_         49 

Evening, -        -    50 

Song  of  the  Ghost  of  crazy  Bet,  -        -        .        _        .         52 

The  Serenade, 54 

Sunset  on  the  Hills, ._  55 

The  Countless  Stars, 57 

New  Year's  Day, 53* 

The  Farewell, 59 

^'  The  things  unseen  are  real," 62 


X  CONTENTS. 

Page 

Lines  written  in  a  Friend's  Album, 63 

Upon  hearing  the  Musical  Glasses, 64 

Moonlight, 65 

Dedication  Hymn, 67 

Thou  art  gone  far  away, 69 

"  To  whom  shall  we  go," 70 

To  a  Friend,  .-..--        -        -        -        -    71 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Dr.  Spurzheim,         .        -        -        -         73 

Musings  on  the  Rocks  at  Nahant, 74 

Thanks  to  a  Friend,  who  sent  me  a  beautiful  bunch  of  very 

small  Roses  when  I  was  quite  ill, 76 

To  the  Tune  of  "  Away  with  Melancholy,"        -        -        -         77 

To  my  JEolian  Harp, 79 

Lines  written  for  the  Tune  of  Hotham,      -        -        -        -         80 
Home- Sickness,      ---------81 

The  Fourth  Psalm,     -        -        - 82 

The  Twenty-Ninth  Psalm, 84 

Part  of  the  Forty-Second  Psalm, 85 

The  Sixty-First  Psalm, 87 

The  Ninetieth  Psalm, 88 

The  Ninety-Third  Psalm, -    90 

The  One  Hundred  and  Third  Psalm,         -        -        -        -         92 

The  One  Himdred  and  Forty- Seventh  Psalm,         -        -        -    95 
"  By  Faith  ye  are  saved,"  ------         97 

The  Elm  and  Blasted  Tree,    -        -        -        -        -        -        -    98 

The  Ice  Spirit,    -        - 103 

Upon  being  asked  if  I  was  not  sometimes  unhappy,       -        -     105 

The  Little  Spring, 106 

To  the  Night-blooming  Cereus, 107 

To  S.  C.  C,  upon  her  attempt  to  sketch  the  Likeness  of  a  de- 
ceased Friend, 109 

To  a  Friend  who  asked  me  to  write  for  him  some  Poetry,     -    111 

Sabbath  Day, 113 

,  On  entering  a  Wood, 115 

*' Thy  will  be  done," 11(3 

On  the  death  of  E.  P., 117 

God  is  good, 119 


CONTENTS.  XI 

Page 

Autumn, 121 

Lines  written  at  the  request  of  a  Mother,  at  the  birth  of  her 

first  Child, 123 

After  a  debate  upon  the  color  of  the  eyes  of  an  eloquent  friend,  125 

To  a  Friend, 126 

Robinson  Crusoe's  Hymn, 127 

To  Spring, 128 

On  Prayer, 130 

"  The  Spirit  giveth  life," 131 

"  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  Father," 133 

Where  is  thy  Brother  1 135 

The  Shepherd's  Sabbath  Song, 137 

Remember  the  Slave,         -------  138 

Her  Voyage  is  at  an  end,      -        -  .      -        -        -        -        -  140 

"We  never  part  from  Thee,        ------  144 

The  Ministry  of  Pain, 145 

Evening  Prayer, 146 

Evening, 147 

The  Lord's  Day, 148 

Evening  Hymn,        ---.,---  149 

The  little  Boy's  May-day  Song, 150 

Hymn  for  a  little  Boy, 152 

"  The  Lord  is  my  strength," 154 

Hymn, 155 

The  Child's  welcome  to  Spring, 156 

The  little  Boy's  Good  Night,     ----..  158 

The  first  Birds,      - 159 

"  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me,"  -        -        -        -  160 

On  Greenough's  Group  of  the  Child  and  the  Angel,          -  161 

On  the  Death  of  a  Young  Companion, 163 

Hymn, 164 

Hymn, 166 

Thanks  for  a  pleasant  Day, 168 

To  good  Resolutions, 169 

Happiness, 170 

To  a  Bird  singing  in  the  City, 171 

For  the  Fourth  of  July, I73 


Xii  CONTENTS. 

Page 

Children  in  Slavery, -  175 

Musings  in  the  Night, 1"^^ 

Lines  written  on  the  Catskill, 178 

Learned  Fred, 180 

To  a  Fountain,     -        - 1^2 

The  Captive  Eagle, 183 

Little  Roland, -        -        -        -  185 

The  Exiled  Stranger, -  191 


NAHANT. 

AT  THE  FOOT  OF  PULPIT  ROCK. 

HaiLj  boundless  Ocean  !  mighty  rolling  deep  I 
Thou  ever  restless,  still  rejoicing  sea  ! 

Now  slowly  heaving  in  thine  awful  sleep, 
Now  wildly  roaring  in  glad  revelry. 

The  stars  look  glorious  in  their  silent  place  ; 

The  fixed  hills  in  tranquil  grandeur  stand  ; 
The  moon  renews  her  gentle,  smiling  face  ; 

The  sun  proclaims  his  Maker's  bounteous  hand  — 

"  In  solemn  silence  all ;  "  while  thy  glad  voice 
Went  forth  at  first  in  its  eternal  roar, 

And  billow  after  billow  cries,  Rejoice ! 

In  ceaseless  murmurs  on  the  sounding  shore. 

I  love  to  stand  upon  the  giant  rock 

That  thrusts  his  scowling  front  against  thy  wave. 
And  feel  the  trembling  from  the  mighty  shock, 

And  hear  it  roaring  through  each  hollow  cave  ;  — 
2 


14  NAHANT. 

Then  mark  the  billows  gathering  up  their  force, 
Tossing  their  foam  back  like  a  lion's  mane  ; 

And,  rushing  on  in  their  exulting  course. 
In  idle  murmurs  swift  recoil  again. 

And,  while  the  baffled  waters  seem  to  sleep, 
Far  off  they  gather  mightier  than  before  ; 

Onward  they  move  with  slow  majestic  sweep, 
And  break  in  thunder  round  the  rocky  shore. 

There  is  a  power  within  me,  that  awakes 
Midst  this  wild  conflict  of  the  stormy  sea ; 

And  moves,  and  swells,  and  its  stern  thraldom  breaks, 
And  heaves  and  pants  for  immortality. 

This  wind  must  die  away  ere  long,  and  thou. 
Old  Ocean,  must  recall  thy  truant  waves; 

Dress  thee  with  smiles,  and  smooth  thy  furrowed  brow, 
And  calmly  rest  thee  in  thy  silent  caves  : 

While,  restless,  by  no  earthly  shores  confined. 
The  sea  of  Thought,  nor  ebb  nor  limit  knows, 

Fed  from  the  fountains  of  Creative  Mind, 

Through  realms,  through  worlds  unknown  forever  flows. 


SACHEM'S   HILL. 

This  ia  a  little  hill,  on  the  shore,  in  the  town  of  Cluincy.  It  is  shaped  like 
an  arrow-head,  as  its  original  name,  Masentusett,  in  the  Indian  language,  signifies  ; 
Mas  meaning  arrow-head,  and  Entusett,  hill.  From  this  spot  Boston  and  its 
vicinity,  from  the  Blue  Hills  to  the  rocks  of  Nahant,  rise  upon  the  view  like  a 
panorama.  It  was  the  abode  of  the  Sachem  when  the  English  first  arrived.  He 
was  a  friendly  old  man,  and  sold  them  corn  and  land.  Soon  after  their  arrival,  an 
epidemic  appeared  among  his  tribe;- and,  in  a  short  time,  nothing  was  left  of 
them  but  the  few  remains  that  are  still  found  of  their  simple  implements  of  war 
and  agriculture,  and  the  name  of  this  little  hill,  which  some  suppose,  with  a 
slight  alteration,  was  given  to  this  State. 

Here,  from  this  little  hillockj  in  days  long  since  gone  by, 
Glanced  over  hill  and  valley  the  Sachem's  eagle  eye; 
His  were  the  pathless  forests,  and  his  the  hills  so  blue. 
And  on  the  restless  ocean  danced  only  his  canoe. 

Here  stood  the  aged  chieftain,  rejoicing  in  his  glory ; 
How  deep  the  shade  of  sadness  that  rests  upon  his  story  I 
For  the  white  man  came  with  power;  like  brethren  they  met; 
But  the  Indian  fires  went  out,  and  the  Indian  sun  has  set. 

And  the  chieftain  has  departed ;  gone  is  his  hunting-ground; 
And  the  twanging  of  his  bow-string  is  a  forgotten  sound. 
Where  dwelleth  yesterday  ?  and  where  is  echo's  cell  ? 
Where  has  the  rainbow  vanished? — there  does  the  Indian 
dwell. 


16  sachem's  hill. 

But  in  the  land  of  spirits  the  Indian  has  a  place. 
And  there,  'midst  saints  and  angels,  he  sees  his  Maker's  face : 
There  from  all  earthly  passions  his  heart  may  be  refined, 
And  the  mists  that  once  enshrouded,  be  lifted  from  his  mind. 

And  should  his  free-born  spirit  descend  again  to  earth, 
And  here,  unseen,  revisit  the  spot  that  gave  him  birth. 
Would  not  his  altered  nature  rejoice  with  rapture  high 
At  the  changed  and  glorious  prospect  that  now  would  meet 
his  eye  ? 

Where  nodded  pathless  forests,  there  now  are  stately  domes  ; 
Where   hungry  wolves  were  prowling,    are  quiet,   happy 

homes  5 
Where  rose  the  savage  war-whoop,  is  heard  sweet  village 

bells, 
And  many  a  gleaming  spire,  of  faith  in  Jesus  tells. 

And  he  feels  his  soul  is  changed — 't  is  there  a  vision  glows 
Of  more  surpassing  beauty  than  earthly  scenes  disclose  ; 
For  the  heart  that  felt  revenge,  with  boundless  love  is  filled. 
And  the  restless  tide  of  passion  to  a  holy  calm  is  stilled. 

Here  to  my  mental  vision  the  Indian  chief  appears, 
And  all  my  eager  questions  fancy  believes  he  hears. 
Oh  speak !  thou  unseen  being,  and  the  mighty  secrets  tell 
Of  the  land  of  deathless  glories,  where  the  departed  dwell. 


sachem's  hill.  17 

I  cannot  dread  a  spirit  —  for  I  would  gladly  see 
The  veil  uplifted  round  us,  and  know  that  such  things  be. 
The  things  we  see  are  fleeting,  like  summer  flowers  decay  — 
The  things  unseen  are  real,  and  do  not  pass  away. 

The  friends  we  love  so  dearly  smile  on  us,  and  are  gone. 
And  all  is  silent  in  their  place,  and  we  are  left  alone  ; 
But  the  joy  "  that  passeth  show,"  and  the  love  no  arm  can 

sever, 
And  all  the  treasures  of  their  souls,  shall  be  with  us  forever. 


2* 


LINES   TO   TWO  FRIENDS, 

WITH     ONE     OF    GENERAL    WASHINGTON'S    HAIRS. 

If  you  would  like  a  reverie. 
Listen  awhile,  dear  friends,  to  me ; 
And  let  a  frail  and  slender  hair 
To  times  long  passed,  your  fancy  bear : 
Where,  seated  on  his  mother's  knee, 
The  infant  Washington  you  see. 
There,  twined  around  her  finger  white, 
In  a  soft  ringlet,  golden  bright. 
This  very  hair  shall  meet  your  sight. 
Who  could,  in  that  round  baby  face, 
The  hero  of  his  country  trace? 

To  auburn  hue  it  darkens  now. 
Curling  around  the  youthful  brow 
That  shades  his  beaming,  kindling  eye, 
Prophetic  of  futurity. 

Now  glory  fills  his  manly  breast. 
And  by  his  helmet  it  is  prest; 
His  country's  weal  his  bosom  warms. 
And  victory  crowns  the  hero's  arms. 
Mayhap,  on  some  successful  day. 
Resting  from  the  battle  fray, 
From^  his  forehead,  pained  with  care, 
His  honored  hand  has  stroked  this  hair: 


Washington's  haie.  19 

That  hand  that  bore  his  country's  sword, 
By  foeman  feared,  by  friend  adored. 
And  now  a  nation's  shouts  ascend, 
To  their  deliverer,  father,  friend. 
Haply,  for  he  was  gentle,  meek, 
A  tear  of  joy  has  dewed  his  cheek; 
And,  haply,  while  it  lingered  there. 
The  sacred  drop  has  touched  this  hair. 

Now  it  assumes  a  darker  shade ; 
The  color  deepens  but  to  fade : 
Thus  autumn  leaves  more  brightly  glow, 
Thus  joys  still  brighten  as  they  go. 
A  nation's  groans  now  rend  the  skies ;  — 
The  father  of  his  country  dies. 
Think  that,  when  on  his  dying  bed. 
This  hair  adorned  his  sacred  head  ; 
Perhaps,  when  yielding  up  his  breath, 
The  cold,  chill,  dewy  damp  of  death 
Has  bathed  it,  ere  affection  can, 
(As  though  it  were  a  talisman,) 
With  holy  awe  and  tearful  zeal, 
The  precious  relic,  trembling,  steal. 

The  temple  is  decayed  and  gone, 
Where  dwelt  the  soul  of  Washington : 
The  smallest  fragment  that  remains, 
That  consecration  still  retains. 
Affection  casts  a  lustre  round 
The  meanest  trifle  of  the  ground ; 


20  Washington's  hair. 

But  o'er  this  hair  a  halo  glows, 
Which  a  whole  country's  love  bestows. 
Affection  loves  the  meanest  thing. 
Because  affection's  offering. 
Love  dares  to  give  what  has  no  worth, 
Save  from  the  heart  that  sent  it  forth  ; 
But  most  desires  the  humble  lot 
To  give  what  makes  itself  forgot. 


I 


"  FLOW  ON,  THOU  SHINING  RIVER." 

"  Flow  on,  thou  shining  river," 

Flow  gaily  to  the  sea ; 
Flow  on  in  beauty  ever, 
With  all  thy  melody. 
Where  has  thy  gentle  current  strayed? 

Teach  all  thy  joyous  tale  to  me ; 
Let  it  flow  on  through  light  and  shade  ; 
My  song  shall  follow  thee. 

Through  meadows  now  meander. 

With  graceful  sweet  delay  ; 
And  now,  through  green  woods  wander, 
Where  scarcely  peeps  the  day  : 
Now,  where  the  lofty  bank  hangs  o'er, 

Pursue  thy  wild,  romantic  way ; 
Down  the  steep  rocks  now  swiftly  pour. 
Like  time,  that  cannot  stay. 

Its  murmurs  now  increasing. 

On  thy  glad  current  goes  ; 
And  now,  with  roar  unceasing, 

The  rapid  torrent  flows ; 


22  SHINING   RIVER. 

And  noWj  all  tossed  in  feathery  foam, 
Sparkling  with  rainbow  light  it  glows  ; 

It  seems  impatient  for  its  home, 
And  hastening  to  repose. 

Flow  on,  thou  shining  river, 

Thou  soon  shalt  reach  the  sea ; 
Thus  we  are  passing  ever, 
And  haste  away  like  thee. 
Wave  after  wave,  in  ceaseless  flow. 

Moves  onward  to  eternity : 
O  may  the  stream  thy  gladness  know, 
And  thy  sweet  melody  ! 


LINES  ON  NONSENSE. 

Yes,  nonsense  is  a  treasure  ! 

I  love  it  from  my  heart ; 
The  only  earthly  pleasure 

That  never  will  depart. 

But,  as  for  stupid  reason, 
That  stalking,  ten-foot  rule, 

She 's  always  out  of  season, 
A  tedious,  testy  fool. 

She 's  like  a  walking  steeple, 
With  a  clock  for  face  and  eyes, 

Still  bawling  to  all  people. 
Time  bids  us  to  be  wise. 

While  nonsense  on  the  spire 
A  weathercock  you  '11  find, 

Than  reason  soaring  higher. 
And  changing  with  the  wind. 

The  clock  too  oft  deceives. 
Says  what  it  cannot  prove ; 

While  every  one  believes 
The  vane  that  turns  above. 


24  LINES    ON    NONSENSE. 

Reason  oft  speaks  unbidden, 
And  chides  us  to  our  face ; 

For  which  she  should  be  chidden, 
And  taught  to  know  her  place. 

While  nonsense  smiles  and  chatters, 
And  says  such  charming  things, 

Like  youthful  hope  she  flatters ; 
And  like  a  syren  sings. 

Her  charm 's  from  fancy  borrowed. 
For  she  is  fancy's  pet ; 

Her  name  is  on  her  forehead, 
In  rainbow  colors  set. 

Then,  nonsense  let  us  cherish. 
Far,  far  from  reason's  light ; 

Lest  in  her  light  she  perish, 
And  vanish  from  our  sight. 


THE   PIN,  NEEDLE,    AND    SCISSORS. 

A     FABLE. 

'T  IS  true,  although  't  is  sad  to  say, 
Disputes  are  rising  every  day. 
You  'd  think,  if  no  one  did  deny  it, 
A  little  work-box  might  be  quiet ; 
But  't  is  not  so,  for  I  did  hear. 
Or  else  I  dreamed  it,  't  is  so  queer, 
A  Pin  and  Needle  in  the  cushion. 
Maintain  the  following  discussion  : 

The  Needle,  "extra  fine,  gold-eyed," 
Was  very  sharp,  and  full  of  pride. 
And  thus,  methought,  she  did  begin : 
"  You  clumsy,  thick,  short,  ugly  Pin, 
I  wish  you  were  not  quite  so  near  ; 
How  could  ray  mistress  stick  me  here  ? 
She  should  have  put  me  in  my  place, 
With  my  bright  sisters  in  the  case." 

"  Would  you  were  there  !  "  the  Pin  replied  ; 
"  I  do  not  want  you  by  my  side. 
I  'm  rather  short  and  thick,  't  is  true ; 
Who  'd  be  so  long  and  thin  as  you  ? 
I  've  got  a  head,  though,  of  my  own, 
That  you  had  better  let  alone." 
3 


26  Pllf,   NEEDLE,    AND    SCISSORS. 

"  You  make  me  laugh,"  the  Needle  cried  ; 
"  That  you  've  a  head  can't  be  denied  j 
For  you  a  very  proper  head, 
Without  an  eye,  and  full  of  lead." 

"  You  are  so  cross,  and  sharp,  and  thin," 
Replied  the  poor  insulted  Pin, 
''  I  hardly  dare  a  word  to  say, 
And  wish,  indeed,  you  were  away. 
That  golden  eye  in  your  poor  head, 
Was  only  made  to  hold  a  thread ; 
All  your  fine  airs  are  foolish  fudge, 
For  you  are  nothing  but  a  drudge ; 
But  I,  in  spite  of  your  abuse. 
Am  made  for  pleasure  and  for  use. 
I  fasten  the  bouquet  and  sash. 
And  help  the  ladies  make  a  dash ; 
I  go  abroad  and  gaily  roam. 
While  you  are  rusting  here  at  home." 

"  Stop  !  "  cried  the  Needle  ;  "  you  're  too  much ; 
You've  brass  enough  to  beat  the  Dutch  : 
Do  I  not  make  the  ladies'  clothes. 
Ere  I  retire  to  my  repose  ? 
Then  who,  forsooth,  the  glory  wins? 
Alas  !  't  is  finery  and  pins. 
This  is  the  world's  unjust  decree. 
But  what  is  this  vain  world  to  me  ? 
I  'd  rather  live  with  my  own  kin, 
Than  dance  about  like  you,  vain  Pin. 


I 


PIN,    NEEDLE,    AND    SCISSORS.  27 

I  'm  taken  care  of  every  day : 
You  're  used  awhile,  then  thrown  away  ; 
Or  else  you  get  all  bent  up  double, 
And  a  snug  crack  for  all  your  trouble." 

"  True,"  said  the  Pin,  "  I  am  abused. 
And  sometimes  very  roughly  used  ; 
I  often  get  an  ugly  crook, 
Or  fall  into  a  dirty  nook ; 
But  there  I  lie,  and  never  mind  it : 
Who  wants  a  pin  is  sure  to  find  it. 
In  time  I  am  picked  up,  and  then 
I  lead  a  merry  life  again. 
You  fuss  so  at  a  fall  or  hurt, 
And  if  you  touch  a  little  dirt. 
You  keep  up  such  an  odious  creaking. 
That  where  you  are  there  is  no  speaking ; 
And  then  your  lacquey  Emery's  called. 
And  he,  poor  thing,  is  pricked  and  mauled, 
Until  your  daintiness — O  shocking  ! 
Is  fit  for  what  ?  to  mend  a  stocking  ! " 

The  Needle  now  began  to  speak  — 
They  might  have  quarrelled  for  a  week  — 
But  here  the  Scissors  interposed. 
And  thus  the  warm  debate  was  closed : 
"  You  angry  Needle  !  foolish  Pin ! 
How  did  this  nonsense  first  begin  ? 
You  should  have  both  been  better  taught ; 
But  I  will  cut  the  matter  short. 


28  PIN,   NEEDLE,   ANB   SCISSORS. 

You  both  are  wrong,  and  both  are  right, 

And  both  are  very  impolite. 

E'en  in  a  work-box  't  will  not  do 

To  talk  of  every  thing  that 's  true. 

All  personal  remarks  avoid, 

For  every  one  will  be  annoyed 

At  hearing  disagreeable  truth  j 

Besides,  it  shows  you  quite  uncouth, 

And  sadly  wanting  in  good  taste. 

But  what  advantages  you  waste  i 

Think,  Pins  and  Needles,  while  you  may. 

How  much  you  hear  in  one  short  day ; 

No  servants  wait  on  lordly  man 

Can  hear  one  half  of  what  you  can. 

'T  is  not  worth  while  to  mince  the  matter  ; 

Nor  men  nor  boys  like  girls  can  chatter. 

All  now  are  learning,  forward  moving, 

E'en  Pins  and  Needles  are  improving; 

And,  in  this  glorious,  busy  day 

All  have  some  useful  part  to  play. 

Go  forth,  ye  Pins,  and  bring  home  news  I 

Ye  Needles,  in  your  cases  muse  I 

And  take  me  for  your  kind  adviser, 

And  only  think  of  growing  wiser; 

Then,  when  you  meet  again,  no  doubt, 

Something  you  '11  have  to  talk  about, 

And  need  not  get  into  a  passion. 

And  quarrel  in  this  vulgar  fashion. 


PIN,    NEEDLE,   AND    SCISSORS.  29 

Less  of  yourselves  you  '11  think,  and  more 

Of  others,  than  you  did  before. 

You  '11  learn  that  in  their  own  right  sphere 

All  things  with  dignity  appear, 

And  have,  when  in  their  proper  place, 

Peculiar  use,  intrinsic  grace." 

Methought  the  polished  Scissors  blush'd 
To  have  said  so  much,  —  and  all  was  hush'd. 


3* 


TO   A  HUMMING-BIRD. 

To  a  humming-bird  which  flew  into  the  window  on  a  cold  day,  and  became 
immediately  so  tame  as  to  suck  the  honey  from  the  flower  in  my  band. 

CuRiouSj  witching,  magic  thing, 
Etherial  beauteous  being ; 
Tell  me,  hast  thou  lost  thy  way, 
Little  feathery  spirit,  say  ! 

Art  thou  seeking  here  to  find 

Shelter  from  the  chilly  wind  1 

Or  did'st  thou  know  'twas  winter  near 

That  whistled  in  the  blast  so  drear, 

And  striving  on  thy  gauzy  wing 

In  vain  to  find  another  spring. 
Hither,  wearied  in  despair. 
Dost  thou  come  to  claim  my  care  1 

Oh,  't  is  rapture  thus  to  see  thee, 
In  the  flower-cup  which  I  hold  thee, 
Thrust  thy  long  beak  its  sweets  to  sip, 
Which  seems  to  close  its  fragrant  lip 
Thy  sweet  fairy  head  to  kiss. 
And  thus  share  with  thee  the  bliss. 


TO   A   HUMMING-BIED.  31 

Thy  confidence  has  won  my  heart, 
Sweet  bird,  and  I  am  loath  to  part 
With  thee ;  to  shelter  thee  from  harm 
To  give  thee  food,  and  keep  thee  warm, 

Through  the  chilly  winter  drear. 

Would  be  to  me  a  task  most  dear. 

But,  if  my  tender  care  for  thee 

Were  vain,  and  I  were  doomed  to  see 

Thy  slender  wing  drooping  in  death, 

To  catch  thy  little  dying  breath,  j 
My  sighs  would  sound  thy  parting  knell : 
I  have  no  sighs  to  spare  —  farewell. 

Fly,  sweet  bird,  I  fear  to  love  thee  ; 

Lovely  creature,  fly  and  leave  me  : 

Too  well  I  love  the  joys  I  own, 

Too  deeply  mourn  for  blessings  gone : 
Should  I  sigh  thy  parting  knell, 
My  heart  would  ache  —  so  fare  thee  well. 


TO  A  FRIEND,  WITH  A  WREATH  OF  AMARANTHS. 

ON   NEW  year's   day. 

The  wreath  which  friendship  forms, 

Of  amaranthine  flowers, 
Blooms  fairest  midst  the  storms. 

And  crowns  life's  fading  hours* 

May  every  passing  year 

With  thee  some  blessing  leave, 
While  all  thy  virtues  here 

A  wreath  in  Heaven  shall  weave. 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF  A   BEAUTIFUL  GIRL. 

The  young,  the  lovely,  pass  away, 

Ne'er  to  be  seen  again  ; 
Earth's  fairest  flowers  too  soon  decay; 

Its  blasted  trees  remain. 

Full  oft,  we  see  the  brightest  thing 

That  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Smile  in  the  light,  then  droop  its  wing, 

And  fade  away,  and  die. 

And  kindly  is  the  lesson  given  ; 

Then  dry  the  falling  tear : 
They  came  to  raise  our  hearts  to  Heaven  j 

They  go  to  call  us  there. 


WINTER  SCENES   IN   THE   COUNTRY. 

The  short,  dull,  rainy  day  drew  to  a  close  ; 
No  gleam  burst  forth  upon  the  western  hills, 
With  smiling  promise  of  a  brighter  day, 
Dressing  the  leafless  woods  with  golden  light ; 
But  the  dense  fog  hung  its  dark  curtain  round. 
And  the  unceasing  rain  poured  like  a  torrent  on. 
The  wearied  inmates  of  the  house  draw  near 
The  cheerful  fire ;  the  shutters  all  are  closed  ; 
A  brightening  look  spreads  round,  that  seems  to  say. 
Now  let  the  darkness  and  the  rain  prevail ; 
Here  all  is  bright !     How  beautiful  is  the  sound 
Of  the  descending  rain !  how  soft  the  wind 
Through  the  wet  branches  of  the  drooping  elms  ! 
But  hark!  far  off,  beyond  the  sheltering  hills 
Is  heard  the  gathering  tempest's  distant  swell. 
Threatening  the  peaceful  valley  ere  it  comes. 
The  stream  that  glided  through  its  pebbly  way 
To  its  own  sweet  music,  now  roars  hoarsely  on ; 
The  woods  send  forth  a  deep  and  heavy  sigh  ; 
The  gentle  south  has  ceased  j  the  rude  northwest, 
Rejoicing  in  his  strength,  comes  rushing  forth. 
The  rain  is  changed  into  a  driving  sleet. 
And  when  the  fitful  wind  a  moment  lulls, 
The  feathery  snow,  almost  inaudible, 


WINTER    SCENES    IN    THE    COUNTRY.  35 

Falls  on  the  window-panes  as  soft  and  still 

As  the  light  brushings  of  an  angel's  wings, 

Or  the  sweet  visitings  of  quiet  thoughts 

'Midst  the  wild  tumult  of  this  stormy  life. 

The  tightened  strings  of  nature's  ceaseless  harp, 

Send  forth  a  shrill  and  piercing  melody, 

As  the  full  swell  returns.     The  night  comes  on, 

And  sleep  upon  this  little  world  of  ours, 

Spreads  out  her  sheltering,  healing  wings ;  and  man,  — 

The  heaven-inspired  soul  of  this  fair  earth, 

The  bold  interpreter  of  nature's  voice. 

Giving  a  language  even  to  the  stars  — 

Unconscious  of  the  throbbings  of  his  heart,  — 

Is  still ;  and  all  unheeded  is  the  storm. 

Save  by  the  wakeful  few  who  love  the  night ; 

Those  pure  and  active  spirits  that  are  placed 

As  guards  o'er  wayward  man ;  they  who  show  forth 

God's  holy  image  on  the  soul  impressed, 

They  listen  to  the  music  of  the  storm. 

And  hold  high  converse  with  the  unseen  world  ; 

They  wake,  and  watch,  and  pray,  while  others  sleep. 

The  stormy  night  has  passed  ;  the  eastern  clouds 
Glow  with  the  morning's  ray ;  but  who  shall  tell 
The  peerless  glories  of  this  winter  day  ? 
Nature  has  put  her  jewels  on,  one  blaze 
Of  sparkling  light  and  ever-varying  hues 
Bursts  on  the  enraptured  sight. 
The  smallest  twig  with  brilliants  hangs  its  head  ; 
The  graceful  elm  and  all  the  forest  trees 


16  WINTER   SCENES   IN   THE   COUNTRY. 

Have  on  a  crystal  coat  of  mail,  and  seem 
All  decked  and  tricked  out  for  a  holiday. 
And  every  stone  shines  in  its  wreath  of  gems. 
The  pert,  familiar  robin,  as  he  flies 
From  spray  to  spray,  showers  diamonds  around. 
And  moves  in  rainbow  light  where'er  he  goes. 
The  universe  looks  glad ;  but  words  are  vain, 
To  paint  the  wonders  of  the  splendid  show. 
The  heart  exults  with  uncontrolled  delight. 
The  glorious  pageant  slowly  moves  away, 
As  the  sun  sinks  behind  the  western  hills. 
So  fancy,  for  a  short  and  fleeting  day. 
May  shed  upon  the  cold  and  barren  earth 
Her  bright  enchantments  and  her  dazzling  hues'; 
And  thus  they  melt  and  fade  away,  and  leave 
A  cold  and  dull  reality  behind. 

But  see  where  in  the  clear,  unclouded  sky, 
The  crescent  moon,  with  calm  and  sweet  rebuke, 
Doth  charm  away  the  spirit  of  complaint. 
Her  tender  light  falls  on  the  snow-clad  hills. 
Like  the  pure  thoughts  that  angels  might  bestow 
Upon  this  world  of  beauty,  and  of  sin, 
That  mingle  not  with  that  whereon  they  rest  j  — 
So  should  immortal  spirits  dwell  below. 
There  is  a  holy  influence  in  the  moon, 
And  in  the  countless  hosts  of  silent  stars, 
The  heart  cannot  resist:  its  passions  sleep, 
And  all  is  still ;  save  that  which  shall  awake 
When  all  this  vast  and  fair  creation  sleeps. 


THE  BERKSHIRE   HILLS. 

Fly  to  the  hills,  if  thy  spirit  is  weary ; 
Fly  to  the  hills,  if  life  has  grown  dreary  ; 
In  their  green  recesses  is  heard  a  voice 
That  speaks  of  gladness,  and  cries  Rejoice  ! 

If  faith  and  hope  are  growing  dim. 
Fly  to  the  mountains,  —  they  tell  of  Him 
Who  spake,  and  they  all  in  their  order  stood  ; 
Of  Him  who  pronounced  that  all  was  good. 

Go,  troubled  soul,  to  the  lonely  hill, 
Commune  with  the  Spirit  there,  and  be  still ; 
Look  down  from  the  fearful,  dizzy  height. 
And  thy  soul  shall  swell  with  a  strange  delight. 

Drink  to  the  depths  of  thy  inmost  soul. 
The  solemn  joy  when  the  thunders  roll ; 
In  silence  join  the  glorious  song. 
As  it  echoes,  reechoes,  and  murmurs  along. 

Now  it  leaps,  as  in  play,  from  hill  to  hill ; 
Now  afar  off,  for  a  moment  is  still ; 
And  now  a  full  chord,  it  bursts  forth  again, 
And  fills  with  its  music,  each  valley  and  glen. 
4 


38  THE   BERKSHIRE   HILLS. 

Go  forth  when  the  daylight  is  passing  away, 
And  catch  from  the  hill-tops  the  sun's  parting  ray  ; 
Of  a  world  of  bliss  it  will  seem  to  tell ; 
It  is  bright  as  a  dying  saint's  farewell. 

Dost  thou  seek  for  friends,  —  to  the  hills  repair  ; 
For  love  and  goodness  flourish  there : 
'Mong  the  Berkshire  hills  are  friends  I  know. 
Whose  hearts  can  make  a  heaven  below. 


LINES    FOR  A   YOUNG    LADY'S   ALBUM. 

I  LOVE  to  see  the  blushing  cheek 

Of  gay  and  joyous  youth  ; 
Its  raptures,  all  too  full  to  speak ; 

Its  innocence  and  truth. 

I  grieve  to  think  a  blight  may  fall 

Upon  the  lovely  flow^er  ; 
Its  dewy  perfumed  leaves  may  all 

Be  scattered  in  an  hour. 

My  heart,  unbidden,  heaves  a  sigh, 
And  breathes  a  silent  prayer  — 

That  storms  may  gently  pass  it  by, 
And  time  its  glory  spare. 


MOUNT  AUBURN  IN  AUTUMN. 

I  LOVE  to  mark  the  falling  leaf, 
To  watch  the  waning  moon  ; 

I  love  to  cherish  the  belief 
That  all  will  change  so  soon. 

I  love  to  see  the  beauteous  flowers 

In  bright  succession  pass, 
As  they  would  deck  life's  fleeting  hours, 

And  hide  his  ebbing  glass. 

I  love  the  rushing  wind  to  hear 
Through  the  dismantled  trees. 

And  shed  the  sadly  soothing  tear 
O'er  joys  that  fled  like  these. 

I  love  to  think  this  glorious  earth 

Is  but  a  splendid  tomb. 
Whence  man  to  an  immortal  birth 

Shall  rise  in  deathless  bloom  j  — 

That  nothing  on  its  bosom  dies. 

But  all  in  endless  change 
Shall  in  some  brighter  form  arise, 

Some  purer  region  range. 


MOUNT   AUBURN   IN   AUTUMN.  41 

On  this  fair  couch  then  rest  thy  head 

In  peace,  thou  child  of  sorrow  ; 
For  know  the  God  of  truth  has  said, 

Thou  shalt  he  changed  to-morrow  j  — 

Changed,  as  the  saints  and  angels  are,  / 

To  glories  ever  new  ;  f 

Corrupt  shall  incorruption  wear. 
And  death  shall  life  renew. 


4* 


CHARLEY   AND   HIS  FATHER. 


M.     BA.1.LAD. 


The  birds  are  flown  away, 

The  flowers  are  dead  and  gone ; 

The  clouds  look  cold  and  gray 
Around  the  setting  sun. 

The  trees,  with  solemn  sighs, 
Their  naked  branches  swing; 

The  winter  winds  arise. 
And  mournfully  they  sing. 

Upon  his  father's  knee 

Was  Charley's  happy  place, 

And  very  thoughtfully 
He  looked  up  in  his  face : 

And  these  his  simple  words : 
"  Father,  how  cold  it  blows  ! 

What  'comes  of  all  the  birds 

Amidst  the  storms  and  snows?  " 

"  They  fly  far,  far  away 

From  storms  and  snows  and  rain: 
But,  Charley  dear,  next  May 

They  '11  all  come  back  again." 


CHARLEY    AND    HIS    FATHEB.  43 

"  And  will  my  flowers  come  too  ?  " 

The  little  fellow  said  ; 
"And  all  be  bright  and  new 

That  now  looks  cold  and  dead  ?  " 

"  O  yeSj  dear ;  in  the  spring 

The  flowers  will  all  revive  ; 
The  birds  return  and  sing, 

And  all  be  made  alive." 

"  Who  shows  the  birds  the  way, 

Father,  that  they  must  go? 
And  brings  them  back  in  May, 

When  there  is  no  more  snow  ? 

"And  when  no  flower  is  seen 

Upon  the  hill  and  plain, 
Who'll  make  it  all  so  green. 

And  bring  the  flowers  again?" 

"My  son,  there  is  a  Power 

That  none  of  us  can  see, 
Takes  care  of  every  flower, 

Gives  life  to  every  tree. 

"  He  through  the  pathless  air 

Shows  little  birds  their  way  : 
And  we,  too,  are  his  care  ; 

He  guards  us  day  by  day." 


44  CHARLEY  AND  HIS  FATHER. 

"  Father,  when  people  die, 

Will  they  come  back  in  May?" 

Tears  were  in  Charley's  eye  — 
"Will  they,  dear  father?  say." 

"  No  !  they  will  never  come  : 
We  go  to  them,  my  boy ; 

There,  in  our  heavenly  home, 
To  meet  in  endless  joy." 

Upon  his  father's  knee 

Still  Charley  kept  his  place, 

And  very  thoughtfully 
He  looked  up  in  his  face. 


NANCY'S   BROOK. 

The  following  story  was  related  to  the  writer  on  the  spot,  when  on  a  journey 
to  the  White  Mountains. 

Stay  !  traveller,  through  the  mountain  pass ; 

Rest  thee  within  this  flowery  nook; 
Here  listen  to  the  thrush's  song. 

And  the  sweet  sound  of  Nancy's  brook. 

Traveller,  I  will  a  story  tell, 

From  tradition's  living  book, 
Of  how  this  gentle  streamlet  here 

Received  the  name  of  Nancy's  brook. 

Within  this  mountain's  giant  arms, 

In  days  gone  by,  two  lovers  dwelt ; 
And  all  love  knows  of  truth  and  joy, 

These  faithful  cottage  lovers  felt. 

Nancy  was  pure  as  yon  blue  sky. 

And  sweet  and  fresh  as  this  wild  flower ; 

Her  smile  made  glad  the  wilderness, 
Her  beauty  was  her  only  dower. 


46  ,  nancy's  brook. 

There  came  the  hour  of  worldly  care,  — 
As  come  it  will  to  tenderest  heart : 

He  must  go  forth  to  earn  them  bread, 
And  they  must  weep,  for  they  must  part. 

They  made  no  vow  of  deathless  love  : 
Ah  !  who  can  speak  that  feels  as  they  ? 

These  hills  shall  prumble  into  dust, 
Ere  love  like  theirs  shall  pass  away. 

Far  from  his  Nancy,  William  went ; 

Sore  was  his  bosom's  silent  strife  : 
He  lived  and  labored  for  that  day 

When  Nancy  should  become  his  wife. 

Now  winter  comes  ;  through  stiffen'd  trees 
The  north  wind  sweeps  with  angry  roar ; 

All  shivering  with  cold  there  stands 
A  traveller  at  the  cottage  door. 

Who  is  it  opens  it  for  him  ? 

Who  takes  the  letter  from  his  hands  1 
'T  is  Nancy  ;  see,  she  reads  ;  —  and  see, 

White  as  the  drifted  snow  she  stands. 

"  William  is  ill ;  may  die,"  —  she  cries ; 

"  'T  is  I  alone  can  soothe  his  pain ; 
He  sends  for  me,  and  I  will  go ;" 

And  now  her  color  comes  again. 


nancy's  brook.  ,  47 

Her  aged  parents'  warning  words 

She  does  not  heed ;  she  may  not  mind  : 

Her  William  ill ;  all  other  fears  ^ 

Are  nought — are  given  to  the  wind. 

Now  the  sweet  hour  of  evening  prayer 

Has  calmed  and  cheered  poor  Nancy's  heart : 

She  said,  —  "  Dear  father,  bless  your  child  j 
Dear  mother,  kiss  me,  ere  we  part." 

"  Bless  thee,  my  child  !  "  her  father  cries. 
And  her  dear  head  with  tears  embalms  : 

In  silent  grief,  her  mother  wept, 
And  wrapt  her  in  her  shelt'ring  arms. 

The  piercing  cold  by  her  unfelt. 

At  the  first  streak  of  early  dawn, 
No  farewell  said,  no  danger  feared, 

Nancy  to  him  she  loves  is  gone. 

There  was  not  then  this  smooth,  broad  road  j 

A  rough  and  narrow  path  alone 
Led  to  the  mountain  temple  then. 

And  made  its  deep  recesses  known. 

The  dull,  cold  sun,  no  cheering  ray 

Upon  the  trembling  traveller  shed  ; 
The  driving  snow  and  piercing  wind 

Beat  on  her  young,  devoted  head  — 


48  nancy's  brook. 

Unheeded  still,  for  in  her  breast, 
Love,  hope,  and  fear,  with  restless  strife. 

Made  her  unconscious  of  the  cold 
That  froze  the  fountains  of  her  life.    • 

Like  a  spent  child,  she  sank  to  rest; 

Upon  a  snow-drift  laid  her  head  : 
The  mountain  held  her  lifeless  form ; 

Her  spirit  to  her  William  fled. 

'T  was  by  this  stream,  her  loving  soul. 
Its  tender,  earthly  frame  forsook. 

They  found  her  fast  asleep  in  death. 
And  hence  they  called  it  Nancy's  brook. 


TO  A   BEAUTIFUL  GIRL. 

Sweet  flower,  so  young,  so  fresh,  so  fair, 
Bright  pleasure  sparkling  in  thine  eye  ; 
Alas !  e'en  thee,  time  will  not  spare  5 
For  thou  must  die. 

That  heart,  with  youthful  hope  so  gay, 
That  scarcely  ever  breathed  a  sigh, 
Must  weep  o'er  pleasures  fled  away ; 
For  all  must  die. 

But,  though  the  rosy  cheek  may  fade, 
The  virtuous  wish,  the  purpose  high, 
The  bloom  with  which  thy  soul 's  arrayed, 
Shall  never  die. 


EVENING. 

The  sun  is  set,  the  day  is  o'er, 
And  labor's  voice  is  heard  no  more ; 
On  high,  the  silver  moon  is  hung  ; 
The  birds  their  vesper  hymns  have  sung, 
Save  one,  who  oft  breaks  forth  anew, 
To  chant  another  sweet  adieu 
To  all  the  glories  of  the  day. 
And  all  its  pleasures  passed  away. 
Her  twilight  robe  all  nature  wears. 
And  evening  sheds  her  fragrant  tears, 
Which  every  thirsty  plant  receives, 
While  silence  trembles  on  its  leaves. 
From  every  tree  and  every  bush. 
There  seems  to  breathe  a  soothing  hush ; 
While  every  transient  sound  but  shows 
How  deep  and  still  is  the  repose. 
Thus  calm  and  fair  may  all  things  be, 
When  life's  last  sun  has  set  with  me  ; 
And  may  the  lamp  of  memory  shine 
As  sweetly  on  my  day's  decline, 
As  yon  pale  crescent,  pure  and  fair. 
That  hangs  so  safely  in  the  air. 


EVENING.  61 

And  pours  her  mild,  reflected  light, 

To  soothe  and  bless  the  weary  sight. 

And  may  my  spirit  often  wake 

Like  thine,  sweet  bird ;  and,  singing,  take 

Another  farewell  of  the  sun,  — 

Of  pleasures  past,  of  labors  done. 

See,  where  the  glorious  sun  has  set, 

A  line  of  light  is  lingering  yet : 

O,  thus  may  love  awhile  illume 

The  silent  darkness  of  my  tomb. 


SONG   OF  THE  GHOST   OF  CRAZY  BET. 

The  clouds  have  all  melted  away, 

That  hung  o'er  my  morning  of  life ; 
The  darkness  has  turned  into  day, 

And  peace  has  succeeded  to  strife. 

The  trumpet  has  sounded  to  me. 

Saying,  Time  shall  not  be  any  more : 
The  face  of  the  Highest  I  see  ; 

And  with  angels,  I  bow  and  adore. 

But,  leaving  the  mansions  above. 

Through  the  mists  of  this  beautiful  hill, 

I  look  on  the  valley  I  love, 
And  a  blessing  implore  for  it  still. 

Peace  be  in  that  dwelling  where  brethren  meet ; 

Where  the  houseless  are  sheltered,  the  hungry  are  fed  ; 
Where  heart  can  meet  heart,  in  communion  sweet  j 

Where  the  maniac  often  has  rested  her  head. 

May  the  wind  whisper  peace,  as  it  sighs 
Through  the  trees  where  their  fathers  have  been, 

And  murmur,  that  still,  from  the  skies, 
They  smile  on  the  heavenly  scene. 


SONG  OP  THE  GHOST  OF  CRAZY  BET.        53 

Flow  softly,  sweet  stream,  as  you  pass  by  the  place, 

And  bless  it  in  silvery  tones ; 
Reflect  every  feature,  and  catch  every  grace. 

And  melody  make  with  the  stones. 

O,  bless  the  still  valley,  ye  angels  above. 

Ye  holy,  invisible  throng  ! 
And  ever  spread  o'er  it  your  pinions  of  love. 

And  bless  it  with  me. in  your  song. 


.5* 


THE  SERENADE. 

To  F.  B.,  who,  just  as  I  was  speaking  of  her,  late  at  night,  with  a  friend, 
began  to  sing  under  the  window.  There  were  two  ladies  with  her,  dressed  in 
Avhite.  As  soon  as  we  spoke  to  them,  they  disappeared.  They  sang  The  Swiss 
Boy,  Fidolino,  and  a  German  love  song. 

List  !  list,  lady  fair,  to  a  tale  of  the  hill. 

If  to  you,  are  all  mysteries  dear ; 
A  tale,  that  with  wonder  thy  bosom  shall  fill,  — 

Not  of  yore,  but  of  yesterday  —  hear. 

If  you  think  of  a  spirit  —  I  tried  it  last  night  — 

And  to  speak  to  it  freely,  you  long : 
It  comes  at  your  bidding,  as  swiftly  as  light, 

And  pours  forth  a  soul-touching  song. 

Now  sweetly  it  swells  on  the  night  breeze ;  and,  hark! 

The  Swiss  boy  arose  with  his  pail; 
The  fisherman  floats  in  his  beautiful  bark, 

And  the  pleadings  of  love  do  not  fail. 

With  two  sister  spirits  it  came,  all  in  white ; 

I  saw  them  ;  I  opened  the  door; 
I  spoke,  and  they  flitted ;  again  it  was  night, 

And  as  silent  and  dark  as  before. 


THE    SERENADE.  55 

Like  spirits  they  came,  like  spirits  they  went  3 

They  left  not  a  track  on  the  grass ; 
From  the  heart's  father-laud  they  surely  were  sent  — 

So  swiftly  they  vanished,  alas ! 

But  the  songs  that  they  sang,  did  not  vanish  away  ; 

The  pleasure  we  ever  may  keepj 
We  shall  hear  them  by  night,  we  shall  hear  them  by  day, 

Till  pleasure  and  memory  sleep. 


SUNSET   ON   THE   HILLS. 

STOCKBRIDGE. 

It  is  the  gentle  evening  hour ; 

And,  see,  the  shades  are  lengthening  fast ; 
My  spirit  feels  its  softening  power, 

And  troubles,  with  the  day,  have  pass'd. 

In  quiet  beauty,  fixed  repose, 

The  hills,  like  guardians  of  the  land. 

Catch  the  last  sun-beam,  as  it  glows. 
And  bright  in  tranquil  grandeur  stand. 

All,  all  is  beauty,  love  and  peace ; 

Mysterious  longings  heave  and  swell 
Within  my  soul,  and  shall  not  cease, 
Till  a  like  glory  there  shall  dwell. 


THE  COUNTLESS  STARS. 

Look  at  the  countless  stars,  ye  of  the  drooping  heart, 

And  list  to  the  story  they  tell: 
It  is  all  of  the  land  where  griel  has  no  part,  — 
The  land  where  the  pure  spirits  dwell. 
Child  of  sorrow  !  raise  thine  eyes  there, 

And  wipe  away  every  tear ; 
As  they  sparkle  in  light, 

They  shall  pour  on  thy  sight 
A  rapture  unknown  to  thee  here ! 

Look  at  the  countless  stars,  should  e'er  thy  faith  grow  dim, 

And  mark  how  they  start  from  the  sky, 
To  speak  of  the  goodness  and  glory  of  Him 
Who  lighted  and  hung  them  on  high. 
Child  of  sorrow  !  they  call  thee  there, 

And  mildly  rebuke  thy  despair. 
O  !  hear  the  shining  throng 
Repeat  the  heavenly  song  : 
No  death  no  sorrow  is  there  ! 


NEW  YEAR'S  DAY. 

A  YEAR,  another  year,  is  gone  : 

Time  never  stops :  each  day 
He,  the  destroyer,  hurries  on, 

And  bears  some  spoil  away. 

What  does  he  steal  ?  youth's  sparkling  eye. 
Its  roseate  cheek,  and  sunny  hair. 

Its  bounding  step  of  ecstacy,  — 

These  are  the  trophies  time  must  wear. 

But  can  he  touch  the  heavenly  soul  1 

Alas !  his  icy  fingers  there 
Usurp  a  withering  control, 

And  scarce  oue  glory  spare. 

But  love  still  on  the  wreck  survives, 
The  first  to  live,  the  last  to  die : 

Amidst  the  waste  it  smiling  lives, 
And  tells  of  immortality. 


THE   FAREWELL. 

The  roses  are  dead, 

The  summer  has  fled, 
And  the  music  of  birds  will  soon  cease. 

The  feathery  hours 

Have  passed  with  the  flowers ; 
Farewell  to  the  cottage  of  peace  ! 

To  your  high  hills  so  blue, 

A  long,  mournful  adieu, 
And  your  woods,  where,  enchanted,  we  roved  5 

Where,  with  silent  awe  filled, 

Gay  folly  was  stilled. 
And  thoughts  that  were  saddest  we  loved. 

Sweet  stream,  flow  along. 

And  murmur  your  song. 
As  you  wind  through  each  flowery  dell  ; 

While  a  sigh  and  a  tear. 

On  your  bosom  you  bear, 
From  the  heart  that  now  bids  you  farewelL 


60  THE     FAREWELL. 

But  the  saddest  adieu, 
Dear  friends,  is  to  you, 

Whose  kindness  illumined  the  scene. 
Summer  passes  away. 
And  the  flowers  decay  — 

Our  friendship  shall  ever  be  green. 

In  your  peaceful  domain. 

Though  sorrow  and  pain 
May  intrude  with  their  withering  power  5 

Yet  virtue  will  last. 

And  the  wintry  blast 
Will  spare  you  love's  evergreen  flower. 

Though  at  distance  I  dwell, 
Though  I  bid  you  farewell, 

Yet  the  light-winged  thought  can  restore 
Your  kind,  peaceful  hearth. 
Where,  mid  friendship  and  mirth. 

The  tempest  unheeded  may  roar. 

When  the  stormy  winds  blow, 
When  whitened  with  snow 

Are  the  fields  where  together  we  roved  ; 
When  the  dim  twilight  hour. 
With  a  saddening  power, 

Repictures  past  scenes  that  we  loved,  — 


THE    FAREWELL.  61 

You  will  not  forget, 

To  sigh  with  regret, 
For  summer  companions  away  ; 

And  let  our  hearts  meet, 

In  communion  sweet, 
At  the  close  of  the  wintry  day. 

Farewell,  ye  dear  friends  ! 

As  life's  tw:ilight  descends, 
May  the  dawn  of  that  morning  increase. 

Which  shall  burst  on  the  sight. 

In  the  regions  of  light. 
And  open  the  mansions  of  peace. 


"THE   THINGS   UNSEEN   ARE   REAL." 

All,  all  is  but  a  passing  show ; 

There  's  nothing  real  here  : 
Strange  phantoms,  flitting  to  and  fro, 

Just  wake  a  smile,  or  tear. 

A  vapor  driven  by  a  breath, 

A  meteor's  transient  gleam, 
A  twice-told  tale  that  ends  in  death, 

A  short  and  troubled  dream,  — 

Such  is  this  changing,  fev'rish  life, 

And  thus  we  hurry  on. 
All  eager  in  the  scene  of  strife, 

Till  time  and  life  are  done. 

But  that  which  eye  hath  never  seen. 

Nor  ear  hath  ever  heard,  — 
These  are  the  real  joys,  that  lean 

On  God's  unfailing  word. 


LINES  WRITTEN   IN  A  FRIEND'S  ALBUM. 

What  though  our  life, 

With  all  its  strife, 
Is  but  a  fading  flower ; 

The  early  dew. 

The  rosy  hue 
Of  the  transient  morning  hour  ; 

A  meteor  light. 

In  a  stormy  night ; 
A  little  vapor  flying  fast, 

O'er  hills  and  woods, 

And  vales  and  floods, 
Scattered  by  the  rising  blast : 

Yet  to  the  rose, 

Which  lowliest  grows, 
A  sweet  perfume  is  given  ; 

And  dews  arise. 

To  deck  the  skies  ; 
And  the  meteor  's  lost  in  heaven. 


UPON  HEARING   THE  MUSICAL  GLASSES. 

It  did  not  seem  like  human  art : 
It  seemed  the  language  of  the  heart. 
When  joy  or  sorrow  wake  at  will 
The  trembling  chords,  with  magic  skill ; 
So  soft,  so  distant,  so  sadly  sweet. 
Like  sounds  when  parted  spirits  meet. 
Like  a  pure  thought  it  gently  stole, 
And  fell  like  hope  upon  the  soul  — 
Not  hope  that  rests  on  earthly  things. 
But  that  which  peace  and  pardon  brings ; 
Mingling  tears  and  humble  sorrow, 
With  the  promise  of  the  morrow. 


MOONLIGHT. 

Look  up!  behold  the  lovely  scene; 

Unwonted  glories  shine  on  high. 
Nurse  of  sweet  thoughts,  night's  gentle  queen. 

Holds  her  grand  levee  in  the  sky. 

A  thousand  liveried  clouds  attend, 

In  silent  pomp  around  her  wait ; 
Before  her  throne,  they  float  and  bend. 

Then  sail  along  in  solemn  state. 

First  confidant  of  youthful  hearts, 
The  poet's  earliest,  tenderest  love, 

Sweet  moon  !  what  joy  thy  smile  imparts, 
Lifting  the  soul  to  realms  above. 

Is  this  thy  festival  to-night  ? 

See,  endless  ranks  of  clouds  arise, 
To  catch  from  thee  one  ray  of  light,  — 

Then  disappear,  like  human  joys. 

My  thoughts,  while  gazing  on  thy  face. 
Still  catch  from  thee  some  tender  hue  ; 

Like  these  light  clouds,  each  other  chase, 
And,  passing,  pay  their  homage  too. 
6* 


^^  MOONLIGHT. 

And  memory's  secret,  treasured  store,  — 
Records  the  lips  can  never  tell,  — 

Of  cherished  joys,  and  sorrows  o'er. 
All  waken  at  thy  magic  spell. 

My  heart  like  thee,  is  calm  and  bright, 
While  on  they  rush,  an  endless  crowd. 

Sheds,  as  they  pass,  a  softened  light; 
Then,  brightening,  rises  o'er  the  cloud. 


DEDICATION   HYMN. 

SUNG    AT     THE    DEDICATION     OF     THE     CHURCH    AT    THE    UPPER    FALLS, 
IN    NEWTON. 

[Tune— Old  Hundred.] 

To  Him  who  said,  —  "  Let  there  be  light," 
And  light  was  poured  the  world  around  ; 

To  Him  who  parted  day  and  night, 
And  made  the  sea  and  solid  ground;  — 

To  Him  these  humble  walls  we  raise,  — 
Him,  whom  the  world  cannot  contain ; 

To  Him  we  raise  glad  songs  of  praise : 
O  God,  accept  the  joyful  strain. 

To  Him  who  made  these  hearts,  that  find 
Delight  in  praise,  and  peace  in  prayer ; 

To  Him  who  gave  the  immortal  mind, 
And  placed  his  own  bright  image  there;  — 

To  Him  we  dedicate  this  house, 

To  Him  our  spirits  shall  ascend  : 
Here  we  will  make  our  solemn  vows 

To  God,  our  Father,  and  our  Friend. 


68  DEDICATION    HYMN. 

To  Him  whose  everlasting  love, 

The  Saviour  to  the  world  has  given. 

Who  sent  down  Jesus  from  above, 

To  turn  our  wandering  thoughts  to  Heaven  ;- 

To  Him  we  raise  this  house  of  prayer ; 

His  love  our  grateful  hearts  shall  fill : 
Here,  long  may  Christian  friends  repair, 

To  sing  his  praise,  and  learn  his  will. 


THOU  ART  GONE   FAR  AWAY. 

Thou  art  gone  far  away,  far  away  ; 
Oj  thou  art  gone  far  away, 

And  left  me  all  alone  ! 
Thou  wert  too  good  to  dw^ell  below  ; 

With  angels  thou  art  gone. 
To  mix  thy  own  pure  thoughts  with  theirs. 

And  left  me  here  alone. 

Thou  lookedst  like  a  lily, 

All  in  its  prime  cut  down ; 
A  smile  was  on  thy  death-cold  face, 

When  I  was  left  alone. 

No  form  so  fair  and  bonny. 

Did  Death  e'er  call  his  own  ; 
And  heaven  smiled  on  its  sweetest  saint, 

When  I  was  left  alone. 

But  thee  I  soon  will  follow. 

Beneath  the  cold,  gray  stone ; 
Thou  'st  left  me  naught  to  covet  here, 

And  I  am  all  alone. 
O,  thou  art  gone  away,  far  away  ; 
O,  thou  art  gone  far  away. 

And  left  me  here  alone. 


"TO  WHOM  SHALL  WE  GOV 

When  our  purest  delights  are  nipt  in  the  blossom, 

When  those  we  love  best  are  laid  low. 
When  grief  plants  in  secret  her  thorns  in  the  bosom, 

Deserted,  '^  to  whom  shall  we  go  ?  " 

When  error  bewilders,  and  our  path  becomes  dreary. 

And  tears  of  despondency  flow; 
When  the  whole  head  is  sick,  and  the  wholeheart  is  weary. 

Despairing,  "  to  whom  shall  we  go?  " 

When  the  sad,  thirsty  spirit  turns  from  the  springs 

Of  enchantment  this  life  can  bestow. 
And  sighs  for  another,  and  flutters  its  wings, 

Impatient,  "to  whom  shall  we  go?  " 

O,  blest  be  that  light  which  has  parted  the  clouds, 

A  path  to  the  pilgrim  to  show. 
That  pierces  the  veil  which  the  future  enshrouds, 

And  shows  us,  to  whom  we  may  go. 


► 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

You  bid  me  not  to  love  too  well, 

To  clip  my  fancy's  wings  ; 
Not  to  believe  the  tales  she  '11  tell, 

Nor  listen  when  she  sings. 

Perchance  the  lesson  may  be  good ; 

But,  ah !  I  have  no  choice  ; 
The  saucy  fairy  will  intrude, 

Whene'er  she  hears  your  voice. 

And  pertly  mimicking  your  air. 

So  wise,  and  so  demure; 
I  quite  forget  her,  and  declare 

It  is  not  fancy,  sure. 

And  when  she  shakes  her  beauteous  head. 

What  rainbow  lustre  glows  ! 
What  floods  of  light  are  round  her  shed, 

Which  all  her  charms  disclose. 

I  start,  and,  fearful  of  her  wiles, 

Would  turn  a  deafened  ear; 
And  then  so  much  like  you  she  smiles, 

I  cannot  choose,  but  hear. 


72  TO    A   FRIEND. 

She  tells  me,  reason  gave  her  leave, 
And  bids  me  not  to  fear ; 

Tells  me,  you  never  will  deceive,  — 
You  are  what  you  appear. 

And  this  she  says,  so  sweetly  calm, 
And  looks  so  much  like  you, 

She  quiets  every  vain  alarm. 
And  I  believe  her  true. 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DR.  SPURZHEIM. 

Thou  didst  come  a  stranger  here, 

O'er  the  tossing  ocean's  foam  ; 
Now  we  shed  the  heartfelt  tear. 

For  the  friend  that  has  gone  home. 

What  thou  knewest  of  the  mind, 
Thou  to  teach  us,  here  didst  come : 

What  it  is,  thy  soul  shall  find 
In  its  own  eternal  home. 

All  thy  manhood,  all  thy  youth. 
Lonely  pilgrim !  thou  didst  roam, 

Seeking  for  immortal  truth: 
Thou  shalt  find  her  in  her  home. 

We  are  still,  where  thou  hast  been. 

Far  from  that  celestial  dome  ; 
We  who  took  the  stranger  in. 

We  are  strangers  —  thou  at  home. 


MUSINGS   ON   THE   ROCKS  AT   NAHANT. 

What  pleasing,  solemn  awe  the  soul  subdues, 
When  first  upon  the  sounding  shore, 

Ocean's  blue,  trembling  waves  it  views, 
And  listens  to  their  sullen  roar  ;  — 

Or  sees  them  'mid  the  storm  with  strife  sublime, 
Lashing  the  flinty,  beetling  rocks; 

Whose  iron  scowl  defies  the  power  of  time, 
And  ocean's  foaming  fury  mocks. 

What  fearful  joy  on  jutting  crag  to  stand. 

Till  the  inspired,  expanding  mind 
Sees  Him  who  holds  the  waters  in  his  hand, 

And  rides  upon  the  winged  wind. 

And,  O,  with  one  we  dearly  love,  how  sweet. 

Silent  to  sit  the  livelong  day, 
And  watch  the  billows  breaking  at  our  feet, 

And,  breathless,  feel  the  sprinkling  spray  ! 

How  swiftly  earth-born  passions  die  away, 
While  gazing  on  the  boundless  sea; 

Forgetting  life's  poor,  transient,  fev'rish  day. 
The  thoughts  are  in  eternity. 


MUSINGS  ON  THE  BOCKS  AT  NAHANT.       75 

Louder  and  shriller  now  the  sea-bird  shrieks  ; 

The  foam  curls  o'er  the  craggy  steep  : 
Omnipotence  is  here ;  it  moves,  it  speaks. 

And  wakes  the  horrors  of  the  deep. 

Now,  with  the  tossing  wave  my  soul  is  tossed  ; 

Now,  to  the  realms  of  peace  it  soars ; 
Now,  in  the  wide  immensity  'tis  lost; 

Now,  the  Creator's  power  adores :  — 

Now,  with  the  kindling  eye  of  faith,  I  see 

Jesus,  who  came  from  heaven  to  save 
Repentant  man  —  with  radiant  majesty, 

Walking  the  rolling,  restless  wave. 

Now,  mid  the  storm,  his  heavenly  voice  speaks  peace. 

Chides  his  disciples'  weak  alarm  : 
At  his  rebuke,  the  winds  their  roaring  cease. 

And,  straight,  the  obedient  sea  is  calm. 

And  still  his  voice  the  Christian  can  sustain. 

Mid  strife  and  peril,  safe  from  harm ; 
For  faith,  erect,  can  walk  life's  tossing  main, 

And  love,  'mid  storms  command  a  calm. 


THANKS   TO  A   FRIEND, 

WHO    SENT  ME    A    BEAUTIFUL  BUNCH    OF    VERY    SMALL    ROSES    WHEN 
WAS    QUITE    ILL. 

Such  beauteous  roses  ne'er  were  seen  ! 
Was  it  not  some  fairy  queen, 
Who,  with  kind  intent,  I  deem, 
Came  last  night  to  bless  your  dream, 
And,  frightened  at  the  morning  ray, 
Like  other  visions,  fled  away  ; 
But,  as  in  careless  haste  she  fled, 
Dropped  these  roses  from  her  head  ? 
But,  if  they  came  from  earth  or  heaven, 
Thanks  for  the  pleasure  they  have  given ; 
For  the  enchanting  hope  they  bring 
Of  health,  returning  with  the  Spring. 
They  have  beguiled  some  hours  of  pain. 
Bade  hope  and  fancy  smile  again. 
And  shouldst  thou  know  that  dreary  day. 
When  sickness  wastes  the  frame  away. 
Then  may  to  you  some  friendly  hand 
Bring  flowers  of  earth  or  fairy  land ; 
With  such  a  bloom,  and  sweet  perfume, 
To  dissipate,  like  these,  the  gloom 
Which  gathers  round  the  heart  and  head, 
Whence  health  and  all  its  joys  have  fled. 


TO  THE  TUNE   OF 

"  AWAY    WITH    MELANCHOLY." 

Let  fancy's  airy  finger. 

To  joy  attune  each  string  ; 
No  gloomy  fear  shall  linger  : 

We  '11  merrily,  merrily  sing  fal  la  ! 
O,  droop  not  then  with  sorrow ; 

To  hope's  sure  anchor  cling  ; 
For  joy  will  come  to-morrow  ; 

Then  merrily,  &c: 

Dull,  wrinkling  care  and  sighing, 

Away  we  '11  gaily  fling. 
What  if  old  Time  is  flying, 

We  '11  merrily,  merrily  sing. 
Though  the  rose  may  have  a  thorn, 

A  smile  can  cure  its  sting ; 
'T  is  folly,  indeed,  to  mourn ; 

Then  merrily,  &c. 
7* 


78  TUNE    OF    "  AWAY   WITH   MELANCHOLY." 

Then  away  all  gloomy  faces, 

For  mirth  shall  be  our  king ; 
While  gladness  sorrow  chases^. 

We  '11  merrily,  &c. 
And  gaily  the  time  shall  pass  ; 

'T  is  sure  the  wisest  thing. 
To  hide  with  flowers  his  glasSy 

And  merrily,  merrily  sing  fal  la ! 


TO   MY   iEOLIAN   HARP, 

AS    IT    WAS    PLAYING    ON    A    COLD    STORMY    DAY. 

SaYj  was  it,  my  harp,  the  invisible  wing 
Of  a  spirit  that  passed  o'er  thy  musical  string  ? 
And  comes  it  in  love,  with  its  light,  airy  hand, 
To  play  me  a  song  from  the  heavenly  land  ? 

Though  chill  is  the  wind,  and  fitful  it  blows. 
Yet  sweet  as  in  summer  thy  music  still  flows  ; 
But,  when  rages  the  blast,  and  contending  winds  roar. 
In  silence  you  wait  till  the  tempest  is  o'er. 

And  thus,  like  thy  strings,  is  the  virtuous  mind,  — 

Harmonious  e'en  in  adversity's  wind  ; 

But,  when  by  the  tempests  of  life  it  is  driven. 

It  remembers,  in  silence,  the  storm  is  from  Heaven. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  TUNE   OF  HOTHAM. 

Fare  ye  well,  life's  morning  dreams  ! 

Drooping  hope,  adieu  to  thee  ! 
Life's  eternal  morning  beams, 

As  our  earth-born  pleasures  flee. 

Sorrow's  chilly,  blighting  wind 
May  pass  o'er  the  stricken  heart ; 

But  the  breath  of  heaven  is  kind, 
Though  it  bid  our  joys  depart. 

Dearest  friends  may  cease  to  love  ; 

Death  our  purest  joys  assail ; 
But  the  heart  that  soars  above 

Finds  a  Friend  that  will  not  fail. 

Wounded  spirits  then  may  prize 
Sorrow's  kind  and  chastening  rod ; 

Though  it  loosen  earthly  ties, 
It  shall  lead  the  soul  to  God. 


HOME-SICKNESS. 

[translated  from  the   GERMAN.] 

Were  I  a  wild,  wild  falcon, 

I  'd  soar  away  on  high, 
And  seek  my  father's  dwelling, 

Beyond  the  far  blue  sky. 

Against  that  well-known  door  then 

I  'd  flap  my  wings  with  joy  j 
My  mother  from  the  window 

Sees  and  admits  her  boy. 

"Dear  son  !"  she  'd  say  ;  "  O,  welcome  ! 

How  often  has  my  heart 
Longed  sadly  to  embrace  thee  ; 

Now  here  behold  thou  art !  " 

Thus,  memory  still  is  dreaming 

Of  what  can  never  be. 
My  long-lost  home  —  the  loved  ones  — 

These  eyes  may  never  see. 


THE  FOURTH  PSALM. 

Great  God  of  righteousness  and  love, 
Who  oft  hast  heard  my  prayer, 

Again  my  heart  would  soar  above ; 
Receive  the  suppliant  there ! 

I  know  the  Lord  hath  set  apart 
The  soul  that  loves  him  well ; 

O,  may  he  guide  my  wandering  heart, 
In  holy  love  to  dwell. 

O,  stand  in  awe  before  his  face, 
And  break  his  laws  no  more ; 

Communing  with  your  heart  at  night, 
Be  still,  and  God  adore. 

Let  righteousness  like  incense  rise 
To  Him  all  pure  and  just ; 

He  will  accept  this  sacrifice  : 
Then  in  his  mercy  trust ! 

There  be  who  grope  in  darkest  night, 
And,  doubting,  ask  for  good : 

O  Lord  !  may  thy  celestial  light 
]Be  in  their  souls  renewed. 


THE    FOURTH    PSALM.  83 

Thou  art  my  life,  my  light,  my  joy ; 

Thy  mercies  never  cease  : 
Beneath  thine  ever-waking  eye 

I  Ul  rest  and  sleep  in  peace. 


THE   TWENTY-NINTH  PSALM. 

In  the  beauty  of  holiness  worship  the  Lord  ; 
Exalt  him,  ye  nations,  and  bow  to  his  word ; 
Ye  mighty,  his  power  and  wisdom  proclaim, 
And  give  him  the  glory  due  unto  his  name. 

It  is  He  that  we  hear  in  the  storm's  wild  commotion ; 
And  the  voice  of  the  Lord  is  on  the  wide  ocean  : 
The  cedars  of  Lebanon  bow  at  his  voice, 
While  men  in  his  temple  adore  and  rejoice. 

'T  is  the  Lord  in  the  deep  rolling  thunder  we  hear, 
While  the  untrodden  wilderness  trembles  with  fear; 
O'er  the  high  tossing  billows  unseen  is  his  way ; 
Him  the  floods,  and  the  flames,  and  the  whirlwinds  obey. 

He  spreads  o'er  his  people  the  wings  of  his  love, 
And  gives  them  the  peace  which  descends  from  above; 
Then  give  him  the  glory  and  praise  evermore, 
And  join  with  all  nature  his  name  to  adore. 


PART   OF   THE  FORTY-SECOND  PSALM. 

As  the  frightened,  stricken  deer 
Pants  for  cooling  water-brooks, 

So  my  spirit  thirsts  for  thee, 
So  to  thee,  my  God,  it  looks. 

Night  and  day  have  seen  my  tears ; 

I  have  felt  thy  chastening  rod  : 
When  shall  I  be  nearer  thee  ; 

When  behold  the  living  God  ? 

O'er  departed  hours  I  mourn, 
When  I  joyful  sang  thy  praise 

With  the  grateful,  happy  throng. 
Who  love  to  keep  thy  holy  days. 

Why  art  thou  cast  down,  my  soul  ? 

Why  disquieted  in  vain  ? 
Hope  in  God ;  for  thou  shalt  yet 

Praise  his  boundless  love  again. 

O,  my  God,  my  spirit  faints  ; 

Waves  of  sorrow  o'er  me  roll ; 
Terror^  like  a  sullen  deep. 

Overwhelms  my  sinking  souL 


86  PART    OF    THE    FORTY-SECOND    PSALM. 

Yet  thy  loving-kindness,  Lord, 
Smooths  affliction's  stormy  sea  : 

In  the  night  I  hear  thy  voice ; 
Morning  lifts  my  heart  to  thee. 

Why  art  thou  cast  down,  my  soul  1 
Faint  not  at  the  chastening  rod  I 

Hope  in  Him  ;  He  is  thy  friend  ; 
He  's  thy  Saviour  and  thy  God. 


THE  SIXTY-FIRST    PSALM. 

Wilt  thou  listen,  O  God  !  to  my  prayer  ; 

Unto  thee  for  relief  will  I  cry. 
Lead  my  heart,  overwhelmed  with  despair, 

To  the  Rock  that  is  higher  than  I. 

O,  thou  Refuge  for  all  the  oppressed, 
Thy  praises,  O  Lord,  I  will  sing : 

Thou  art  ever  my  shelter  of  rest ; 
I  will  trust  in  the  shade  of  thy  wing. 

For  my  prayer,  O  my  God,  thou  wilt  hear, 
And  a  blessed  inheritance  give 

To  those  who  shall  serve  thee  with  fear. 
And  in  holy  obedience  live. 


THE  NINETIETH  PSALM. 

O  Lord  !  before  the  mountains'  birth, 
Ere  suns  and  stars  obeyed  thy  nod, 

Or  ever  thou  hadst  formed  the  earth, 
From  everlasting,  thou  art  God. 

Thou  sayest  to  man,  Return  to  dust ! 

€luickly  he  droops  away  in  death  ; 
For  youth,  and  strength,  and  wisdom  must, 

At  thy  command,  resign  their  breath. 

For,  in  thine  all-eternal  sight, 
A  thousand  long,  revolving  years 

Seems  like  a  silent  watch  of  night, 
Or  like  a  yesterday  appears. 

With  thee,  like  rolling  waves  they  pass ; 

Or  like  the  morning's  winged  dream, 
Or  like  the  tender,  springing  grass 

That  sparkles  in  its  dewy  beam. 

Exulting  in  its  glittering  crown. 
It  swiftly  grows,  and  blossoms  fair ; 

But  in  the  evening  is  cut  down. 
And  withers  in  the  chilling  air. 


THE   NINETIETH   PSALBI.  89 

So  teach  us,  Lord,  to  count  our  days, 

And  thus  life's  certain  end  to  see, 
That  we  may  walk  in  wisdom's  ways. 

And  rise  from  death  to  live  with  thee. 


8* 


THE  NINETY-THIRD   PSALM. 

The  Lord  —  the  Lord  of  glory,  reigns, 

In  majesty  arrayed  : 
His  power  the  universe  sustains ; 

By  Him  it  first  was  made. 

Thou  art  from  everlasting,  Lord ; 

Forever  fixed  thy  throne : 
All  sprang  from  thy  creative  word  : 

Thou  art  the  Holy  One. 

The  mighty  waves  are  rolling  high ; 

The  floods  lift  up  their  voice ; 
They  seem  to  meet  the  bending  sky ; 

The  roaring  storms  rejoice. 

But  thou,  O  Lord,  art  mightier  far ; 

The  tempests  how  to  thee  ; 
Thy  voice  can  still  their  raging  war, 

And  smooth  the  troubled  sea. 

He,  who  can  calm  the  stormy  deep, 
Will  give  his  servants  peace  : 

His  promises  he  '11  ever  keep ; 
His  mercies  never  cease. 


THE     NINETY-THIRD     PSALM.  91 

O,  then,  let  all  from  sin  depart, 

And  keep  his  sacred  word  ; 
Let  holiness  make  every  heart 

A  temple  for  the  Lord. 


THE   ONE  HUNDRED   AND   THIRD   PSALM. 

O  BLESS  the  Lord !  my  soul,  O  bless 

His  holy,  holy  name  : 
Rejoice  his  mercies  to  confess, 

His  praises  to  proclaim  ;  — 

Who  pardons  all  thy  sins,  whose  breath 

Does  thy  disease  remove, 
Redeems  thy  trembling  soul  from  death, 

And  croAvns  thee  with  his  love. 

He  makes  thy  cup  o'erflow  with  good  ; 

So  that  thy  failing  days 
Are  like  the  eagle's  strength  renewed: 

O,  let  them  show  his  praise  ! 

He  measures  not  his  bounteous  grace 

According  to  our  sins  : 
Repentant  tears  our  stains  efface, 

A  sigh  his  pardon  wins. 

As  far  as  is  the  fading  west 

From  where  the  day  begins, 
So  far,  from  those  who  have  trangressed, 

Has  he  removed  their  sins. 


THE    ONE    HUNDRED   AND   THIRD   PSALM.  93 

Like  as  a  tender  father  bends 

With  pity  o'er  his  child. 
To  humble  hearts  he  condescends 

To  be  thus  reconciled. 

Then  let  us  praise  his  holy  name  : 

Our  Father,  kind  as  just. 
He  knows  his  children's  feeble  frame. 

Remembers  we  are  dust. 

The  days  of  man  are  like  the  grass, 

And  like  a  flower  he  blooms  : 
The  evening  winds  that  o'er  it  pass, 

Shall  waft  its  last  perfume. 

But  God's  eternal,  boundless  love 

From  everlasting  stands  : 
His  mercy  children's  children  prove. 

Who  follow  his  commands. 

His  throne  is  in  the  heavens  on  high ; 

He  hath  prepared  it  there  ; 
His  kingdom,  —  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky  : 

He  reigneth  everywhere. 

All  ye,  his  angels,  bless  the  Lord  1 

Ye  who  in  strength  excel, 
Who  hearken  to  his  holy  word. 

And  in  his  presence  dwell. 


94  THE    ONE    HUNDRED   AND   THIRD   PSALM. 

O,  bless  the  Lord,  ye  hosts  above, 

Who  execute  his  will; 
Ye  ministers  of  his,  who  love 

His  pleasure  to  fulfil. 

To  bless  the  Lord  all  places  join. 
Beneath  his  wide  control ; 

O,  bless  the  Lord,  his  works  divine ; 
O,  bless  the  Lord,  ray  soul  1 


THE  ONE  HUNDRED  AND  FORTY-SEVENTH  PSALM. 

Oj  PRAISE  the  Lord !  praise  his  great  Dame  ! 

It  is  good  of  his  praises  to  singj 
It  is  joyful  to  worship  the  Lord,  ^ 

And  own  him  our  Saviour  and  King. 

His  outcasts  he  yet  will  redeem  ; 

His  pitying  love  has  no  bounds; 
He  healeth  the  broken  in  heart, 

And  gently  he  binds  up  their  wounds. 

He  counteth  the  number  of  stars, 

And  calls  every  one  by  its  name. 
He  is  great  —  He  only  is  great : 

His  infinite  wisdom  proclaim  I 

He  lifts  up  the  humble  and  meek ; 

The  wicked  he  smites  with  his  rod. 
O,  sing  to  the  Lord  with  thanksgiving, 

Sing  praise  on  the  harp  to  our  God,  — 

Who  gives  every  creature  Jiis  food ; 

Who  prepareth  the  rain  for  the  earth  5 
Who  covers  the  heavens  with  clouds ; 

Whose  word  gave  the  universe  birth. 


96     THE   ONE   HtrNDRED  AND   FORTY-SEVENTH   PSAL]\I. 

He  delights  not  in  beauty  or  strength ; 

But  he  who  shall  serve  him  with  fear, 
Who  trusts  in  his  mercy  and  love, 

To  the  Father  of  mercies  is  dear. 


"BY  FAITH  YE  ARE   SAVED." 

Christian  !  when,  overwhelmed  with  grief  and  care, 
Thou  prayest  for  the  help  that  thou  dost  need, 
As  shipwrecked  mariner  for  life  will  plead : 

O,  then,  for  faith  pour  forth  the  fervent  prayer ! 

'T  is  faith  alone,  life's  heavy  ills  can  bear. 
O,  mark  her  calm,  far-seeing,  quickening  eye, 
Full  of  the  light  of  immortality  : 
It  tells  of  worlds  unseen,  and  calls  us  there  5 
That  look  of  hers  can  save  thee  from  despair. 

When  sorrow,  like  thick  darkness,  gathers  round, 
And  all  life's  flowers  are  fading  in  the  dust. 

Faith  lifts  our  drooping  vision  from  the  ground,  — 
Says,  that  the  hand  that  smites  us  yet  is  just ; 

That  human  agony  hath  ever  found 
The  mighty  God  a  never-failing  trust. 
9 


% 


THE  ELM  AND   BLASTED   TREE. 

The  lengthening  shades  and  glowing  west 

Proclaimed  the  hour  I  loved  the  best ; 

When  tempted  forth  to  feel  the  air, 

And  join  in  nature's  evening  prayer, 

With  calm  delight,  I  silent  strayed 

To  where  an  elmtree's  graceful  shade. 

With  invitation  kind  and  sweet, 

Seemed  to  present  a  verdant  seat. 

There,  seated  on  the  fragrant  ground, 

I  listened  to  each  passing  sound. 

A  little  way  before  me  stood 

A  blasted  tree,  whose  barren  wood 

Presented  one  unvarying  gray. 

Save  a  sweet  vine  that  wound  its  way 

Around  the  melancholy  tree. 

Like  a  faint  smile  it  seemed  to  me, 

Upon  the  visage  of  despair. 

Which  fancy  had  awakened  there, 

That  a  sad  beauty  may  impart, 

But  comes  not  from  the  stricken  heart. 

While,  lost  in  deep  and  mournful  thought, 

I  mused  upon  the  truth  it  taught,^ 


THE  ELM  AND  BLASTED  TREE.  99 

Methought  the  elm  in  words  like  these. 

Which  seemed  to  float  upon  the  breeze, 

The  solitary  tree  addressed. 

And  thus  its  own  light  heart  expressed  :  — 

"  Alas  !  poor,  miserable  tree, 

How  often  I  have  pitied  thee. 

And  wondered  why  our  master  left 

Thee  mournful  here,  of  leaves  bereft ; 

Why  far  away  he  has  not  borne 

Thy  faded  form,  so  tempest  torn  ; 

Why,  still  his  powerful  arm  should  spare 

Thy  sapless  trunk,  and  branches  bare. 

See,  all  but  thou  are  verdant  here  ; 

I  shudder  at  thy  aspect  drear. 

Sad  sigh  the  winds  that  o'er  thee  blow, 

And  wildly  sing  the  song  of  wo. 

But,  as  for  thee,  sweet,  laughing  vine. 

That  round  that  withered  trunk  dost  twine, 

Why  art  thou  wedded  to  despair? 

For  thou  art  young,  and  gay,  and  fair. 

O,  come  to  my  supporting  arms  ; 

Fondly  I  '11  cherish  all  thy  charms ; 

And  leave  that  mournful,  blasted  tree. 

And  come,  sweet  vine,  O,  come  to  me." 

And  now,  methought,  with  saddest  moan, 
In  sweet,  though  melancholy  tone. 
The  desolated  tree  replied. 
While,  softly  sad,  the  breezes  sighed :  — 


100  THE  ELM  AND  BLASTED  TREE. 

"  'T  is  true,  my  beauty  all  has  fled ; 

True,  the  destroyer,  o'er  my  head 

Has  passed,  and  all  my  joys  are  dead. 

My  leafless  branches,  it  is  true, 

No  joyous  spring  shall  e'er  renew, 

By  lightning  and  by  tempest  riven ; 

But,  know  the  stroke  was  sent  from  heaven. 

The  power  that  stripped  my  branches  bare. 

Still  makes  me  his  peculiar  care  ; 

Still  leaves  me  here  with  kind  design. 

To  make  his  power  and  goodness  shine  j 

My  faded  form  to  teach  e'en  thee. 

What  thou,  vain  elm,  must  one  day  be; 

That  thou  may  est  learn  he  can  resume 

Our  vigor  and  our  youthful  bloom. 

His  sun  still  on  me  warmly  glows ; 

And  round  my  form  some  radiance  throws : 

He  bade  this  youthful,  lovely  vine 

Around  my  sapless  trunk  entwine; 

With  filial  love  it  fondly  clings, 

And  e'en  to  me  some  pleasure  brings. 

And  such  support  't  is  sweet  to  give ; 

For  this  I  willingly  would  live. 

The  earth  no  more  with  base  alloy 

Mingles  its  stream  of  dying  joy 

With  the  pure  warmth  I  feel  from  heaven ; 

From  whence,  to  me  a  strength  is-givenj 


THE  ELM  AND  BLASTED  TREE.  101 

EDabling  me  erect  to  stand, 
Beneath  his  kind,  though  chastening  hand. 
And  many  pious  hearts  there  be, 
Whose  truth-illumined  eye  can  see 
E'en  beauty  in  a  blasted  tree  ; 
And  to  the  homesick,  longing  mind. 
The  mournful  accents  of  the  wind, 
That  whisper  through  my  branches  bare, 
Seem  like  a  parting  spirit's  prayer  — 
So  sad,  so  pure,  but  half  expressed, 
A  sighing  for  a  heavenly  rest* 
Sacred  the  sorrow-blighted  form 
That  stands  erect  amid  the  storm: 
The  stroke  that  blights  our  earthly  joys, 
Each  earthly  sorrow,  too,  destroys. 
But  let  this  fond,  confiding  vine 
Still  round  my  shivering  trunk  entwine  ; 
In  countless  folds  so  closely  wound. 
With  ties  that  cannot  be  unbound  — 
Those  clinging  fibres,  strong  though  fine, 
Which  tender  hearts  together  join." 
More  sad  and  low  the  accents  grew  ; 
The  sun  had  smiled  his  last  adieu, 
And  in  the  rushing  blast  of  even. 
Away  each  lingering  tone  was  driven. 
Darkness  commenced  her  solemn  sway  { 
I  slowly  homeward  bent  my  way, 
9* 


102  THE  ELM  AND  BLASTED  TREE. 

But  often  turned  once  more  to  see 
The  figure  of  the  blasted  tree  ; 
And  from  the  treasury  of  thought, 
Love  to  recall  the  truth  it  taught. 


THE   ICE   SPIRIT. 

O,  WHERE  is  ihe  place  where  the  sad  heart  may  rest, 

And  hush  all  its  sorrows  and  fears? 
O,  can  the  wide  world  show  a  region  so  blest, 

Where  the  Ice  Spirit  never  appears  ? 

It  chills  the  warm  current  of  life  in  the  veins, 

To  feel  but  his  terrible  breath : 
He  flutters  his  wings  o'er  the  gardens  and  plains  ; 

They  are  still  and  as  silent  as  death. 

The  stream  in  yon  meadow  that  sparkles  so  gay, 

And,  murmuring,  hurries  along, 
The  lee  Spirit  shall  stop  in  its  flowery  way, 

And  silence  its  heart-touching  song. 

He  delighteth  to  nip  the  Spring's  early  blossom  ; 

He  darkens  e'en  poverty's  gloom  ; 
He  pillows  his  head  on  the  maniac's  bosom  ; 

His  home  is  the  dark,  narrow  tomb. 

But,  when  some  fond  heart  with  friendship  that  glows, 

O'erburdened  with  sorrow  and  care. 
On  the  bosom  beloved  would  seek  for  repose. 

And  finds  but  the  Ice  Spirit  there  — 


104  THE    ICE    SPIRIT. 

Then  cruel  and  deep  is  the  Ice  Spirit's  sting  ; 

The  world  no  relief  can  impart ; 
Nor  time,  nor  forgetfulness  ever  can  bring 

A  cure  for  this  wound  of  the  heart. 

Then  where  is  the  place  where  the  wretched  may  rest, 

And  forget  every  sorrow  and  care  ? 
'T  is  Heaven  alone  is  the  region  so  blest, 

For  the  Ice  Spirit  never  comes  there. 


UPON   BEING  ASKED   IF   I   WAS  NOT    SOMETIMES 
UNHAPPY. 

YeSj  oft  the  cloud  of  sorrow  lowers  ; 

Too  oft  my  spirit  sinks  ; 
And,  drooping  with  exhausted  powers, 

The  cup  of  sorrow  drinks. 

My  heart  is  oft  a  stranger  here  ; 

Its  griefs,  its  joys  unknown  ; 
And  feels,  though  bright  the  scene  appear, 

Deserted  and  alone. 

To  God's  all-seeing,  pitying  eye. 

That  heart  is  open  still ; 
To  Him  in  deepest  gloom  shall  rise, 

Submissive  to  his  will. 


THE  LITTLE   SPRING. 

Beneath  a  green  and  mossy  bank 
There  flows  a  clear  and  fairy  stream  ; 

There  the  pert  squirrel  oft  has  drank, 

And  thought,  perhaps,  't  was  made  for  him. 

Their  pitchers  there  the  laborers  fill, 
As  drop  by  drop  the  crystals  flow, 

Singing  their  silvery  welcome  still 
To  all  who  to  the  fountain  go. 

Then  to  the  river  on  it  glides, 

Its  tributary  drop  to  bear  ; 
Its  modest  head  a  moment  hides, 

Then  rises  up  and  sparkles  there. 

The  touching  lesson  on  my  heart 
Falls  like  the  gentle  dews  of  heaven, 

Bids  me  with  humble  love  impart 
The  little  treasure  God  has  given. 

For  from  a  source  as  small  as  this 
Full  many  a  cup  of  joy  may  flow, 

And  on  the  stream  of  human  bliss 
Its  little  ray  of  gladness  throw. 


TO   THE  NIGHT -BLOOMING    CEREUS.* 

Now  departs  day's  garish  light, 
Beauteous  flower  !  lift  thy  head, 

Rise  upon  the  hrow  of  night, 
And  thy  transient  lustre  shed. 

Night  has  dropped  her  dusky  veil ; 

All  vain  thoughts  be  distant  far. 
While  with  silent  joy  we  hail 

Flora's  radiant  evening  star. 

See  !  to  life  her  beauties  start: 
Hail!  thou  lovely,  matchless  flower; 

Much  thou  sayest  to  the  heart. 
In  thy  fleeting,  solemn  hour. 

Ere  we  have  our  homage  paid, 
Thou  wilt  bow  thy  head  and  die  ; 

Thus  our  sweetest  pleasures  fade. 
Thus  our  brightest  blessings  fly. 


*  It  is  well  known,  that  this  flower,  of  unrivalled  beauty,  blooms  only  in  the 
night,  and  fades  as  the  daylight  appears. 


108  TO    THE    NIGHT-BLOOMING   CEREUS. 

Sorrow's  rugged  stem,  like  thine, 
Bears  a  flower  thus  purely  bright ; 

Thus,  when  sunny  hours  decline. 
Friendship  sheds  her  cheering  light : 

And  Religion,  heavenly  flower, 
Joy  of  never-fading  worth. 

Like  thee,  in  the  darkest  hour 
Puts  her  peerless  glories  forth. 

Then  thy  beauties  are  surpassed. 

Splendid  flower,  that  bloom'st  to  die  ; 

Friendship  and  religion  last. 

When  the  morning  dawns  on  high. 

Emblem  just  of  earthly  bliss, 

Wondrous  stranger,  fare  thee  well ! 

What  a  brilliant  dream  it  is. 
To  the  mournful  heart  you  tell. 


^# 


TOLS.  c.  c, 

UPON    HER   ATTEMPT   TO   SKETCH  THE  LIKENESS  OF   A   DECEASED  FRIEND. 

I  FEAR  in  vain  you  hope  to  trace 
The  features  of  her  lovely  face. 
Bright,  blessed  vision  !  it  is  gone, 
And  left  us  in  this  world  alone. 

But  should  fond  memory  be  true. 
And  every  line  present  to  view, 
Yet  would  it  want  the  heavenly  soul 
Which  graced  and  harmonized  the  whole. 

So  when  the  rose  has  lived  its  day. 
And  with  the  night  wind  dies  away, 
And  sheds  its  sweetly  perfumed  leaves, 
Which  the  cold  bosomed  earth  receives,  — 

What  though  the  tenderest  love  could  savev 
Each  leaflet  from  the  chilling  grave, 
Yet,  were  it  far  beyond  its  power 
To  form  again  the  lovely  flower,  — 
10 


110  TO  s.  c.  c. 

The  happier  art,  O,  may  we  find, 
To  catch  the  likeness  of  her  mind  ! 
O,  may  it  not  be  all  in  vain, 
We  strive  to  bid  that  live  again. 


TO   A  FRIEND, 

WHO  ASKED  ME  TO  WRITE   FOR  HIM  SOME  POETRY. 

I  CALL  on  my  muse  : 

She  cannot  refuse ; 
But  she  comes  with  a  tear  in  her  eye. 

The  wreath  on  her  head 

Is  withered  and  dead, 
And  her  song  has  turned  into  a  sigh. 

She  shows  me  a  glass, 

In  which  I  see  pass 
The  ghosts  of  my  happier  hours. 

There  fancy  still  lingers, 

With  sweet  fairy  fingers, 
To  dress  them  with  nothing  but  flowers. 

Then  it  changes  anew : 

'T  is  the  future  I  view  ; 
But  my  stricken  heart  faints  at  the  sight. 

'T  is  painted  by  fear, 

All  dismal  and  drear. 
And  hope  has  extinguished  her  light. 


112  TO   A    FRIEND. 

Then  the  present  appears, 

All  bedimmed  with  my  tears. 
And  fancy,  sweet  fancy,  is  gone  ; 

And  dark  is  the  day. 

And  lonely  the  way, 
And  the  traveller  treads  heavily  on. 

Now  she  raises  her  eye, 

And*  points  to  the  sky. 
And  bids  me  look  there  for  my  rest ; 

And  glories  untold. 

To  my  vision  unfold, 
As  I  gaze  on  the  home  of  the  bless'd. 


SABBATH   DAY. 

How  sweet,  upon  this  sacred  day, 

The  best  of  all  the  seven, 
To  cast  our  earthly  thoughts  away, 

And  think  of  God  and  heaven  ! 

How  sweet  to  be  allowed  to  pray 

Our  sins  may  be  forgiven ; 
With  filial  confidence  to  say, 

"  Father,  who  art  in  heaven  !  " 

With  humble  hope  to  bend  the  knee, 
And,  free  from  folly's  leaven, 

Confess  that  we  have  strayed  from  thee, 
Thou  righteous  Judge  in  heaven. 

And  if,  to  make  all  sin  depart. 

In  vain  the  will  has  striven. 
He  who  regards  the  inmost  heart. 

Will  send  his  grace  from  heaven. 
10* 


114  SABBATH   DAY. 

If  from  the  bosom  that  is  dear, 
By  cold  unkindness  driven, 

The  heart  that  knows  no  refuge  here. 
Shall  find  a  friend  in  heaven  ;  — 

Then  hail,  thou  sacred,  blessed  day. 
The  best  of  all  the  seven. 

When  hearts  unite  their  vows  to  pay 
Of  gratitude  to  Heaven. 


ON  ENTERING   A   WOOD. 

Here  let  busy  turmoil  cease  ; 
Every  sound  here  echoes  peace  ; 
Whispering  winds,  that  murmur  here, 
Gently  dry  the  falling  tear, 
Soothing  while  they  jjvake  the  heart, 
Bidding  earth-born  care  depart. 
Here  the  spirit  walks  abroad ; 
Here  the  soul  communes  with  God. 
Sacred  silence  of  the  wood  ! 
Let  no  thought  on  thee  intrude. 
Save  what  may  the  notes  prolong 
Of  all  nature's  Sabbath  song. 


"THY  WILL  BE    DONE." 

How  sweet  to  be  allowed  to  pray 

To  God,  the  holy  One  ; 
With  filial  love  and  trust  to  say, 

"  Father,  thy  will  be  done  I  " 

We  in  these  sacred  words  can  find 

A  cure  for  every  ill ; 
They  calm  and  soothe  the  troubled  mind, 

And  bid  all  care  be  still. 

O  let  that  will,  which  gave  me  breath, 

And  an  immortal  soul. 
In  joy  or  grief,  in  life  or  death, 

My  every  wish  control. 

O  could  my  heart  thus  ever  pray, 

Thus  imitate  thy  Son  ! 
Teach  me,  O  God,  with  truth  to  say,  — 

"  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done." 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF  E.  P. 

Thou  art  not  dead,  thou  couldst  not  die ; 
But  thou  art  changed  —  from  grief  to  joy  : 
Thy  weakness  now  has  put  on  strength ; 
Thy  mortal,  immortality. 
That  heart  that  throbbed  with  purest  love, 
That  heart  that  thrilled  with  deepest  woe. 
Rests  like  a  wanderer  at  home, 
And  beats  with  love  and  joy  alone. 
Thy  life,  like  a  bright  vision  passed, 
Thy  soul,  the  spirit  of  the  dream : 
Pleasure  and  pain,  with  ceaseless  strife, 
Contended  for  thy  noble  heart : 
Sorrow  oft  spread  her  chilling  pall 
And  darkened  all  thy  sky  ; 
Then  joy,  with  her  gay  flashes,  broke 
The  gloomy  darkness  sorrow  spread. 
There 's  not  a  lovely  transient  thing 
But  brings  thee  to  my  mind  : 
The  rainbow,  or  the  blighted  flower, 
Sweet  summer's  fading  joys. 
The  waning  moon,  the  dying  day. 
The  passing  glories  of  the  clouds, 


118  ON    THE   DEATH    OF    E.  P. 

The  leaf  that  brightens  as  it  falls, 
The  wild  tones  of  the  ^Eolian  harp,  — 
All,  tell  some  touching  tale  of  thee : 
There  's  not  a  high  or  holy  thought. 
There  's  not  a  tender,  lovely  thing. 
But  brings  thee  to  my  mind  ; 
And  faded  hopes,  and  dying  joys. 
And  the  vexed  spirit's  silent  strife, 
All  wake  some  thought  of  thee. 
O  no  !  thou  art  not  dead,  but  changed  ; 
From  glory  unto  glory  changed  : 
Corrupt  now  incorruption  wears. 
And  mortal,  immortality. 


GOD   IS  GOOD. 

God,  thou  art  good  !  each  perfumed  flower. 
The  waving  field,  the  dark  green  wood, 

The  insect  fluttering  for  an  hour,  — 
All  things  proclaim  that  God  is  good. 

I  hear  it  in  each  breath  of  wind ; 

The  hills  that  have  for  ages  stood. 
And  clouds,  with  gold  and  silver  lined,  — 

All  still  repeat  that  God  is  good. 

Each  little  rill,  that  many  a  year 
Has  the  same  verdant  path  pursued, 

And  every  bird  in  accents  clear. 
Joins  in  the  song,  —  that  God  is  good. 

The  restless  sea,  with  haughty  roar. 
Calms  each  wild  wave  and  billow  rude, 

Retrei  ts  submissive  from  the  shore, 

And  swells  the  chorus,  —  "  God  is  good." 

The  countless  hosts  of  twinkling  stars, 
That  sing  his  praise  with  light  renewed ; 

The  rising  sun  each  day  declares. 
In  rays  of  glory,  —  God  is  good. 


120  GOD   IS    GOOD. 

The  moon,  that  walks  in  brightness,  saysj 
That  God  is  good  !  and  man,  endued 

With  power  to  speak  his  Maker's  praise, 
Should  still  repeat  —  that  God  is  good. 


AUTUMN. 

Sweet  summer,  with  her  flowers,  has  past : 

I  hear  her  parting  knell ; 
1  hear  the  moaning,  fitful  blast, 

Sighing  a  sad  farewell. 

But,  while  she  fades,  and  dies  away, 

In  rainbow  hues  she  glows ; 
Like  the  last  smile  of  parting  day, 

Still  brightening  as  she  goes. 

The  robin  whistles  clear  and  shrill ; 

Sad  is  the  cricket's  song ; 
The  wind,  wild,  rushing  o'er  the  hill, 

Bears  the  dead  leaf  along. 

I  love  this  sober,  solemn  time, 

This  twilight  of  the  year ; 
To  me,  sweet  spring,  in  all  her  prime. 

Was  never  half  so  dear. 
11 


122  AUTUMN. 

While  death  has  set  his  changing  seal 

On  all  that  meets  the  eye, 
'T  is  rapture,  then,  within  to  feel 

The  soul  that  cannot  die  ;  — 

To  look  far,  far  beyond  this  sky. 

To  Him  who  changes  never  : 
This  earth,  these  heavens,  shall  change  and  die  5 

God  is  the  same  forever. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  REQUEST   OF  A   MOTHER,   AT    THE  BIRTH   OP    HER 
FIRST    CHILD. 


My  child  !  it  is  my  child  I  hold 

With  rapture,  to  my  heart : 
Nor  men's  nor  angels'  tongues  have  told 

The  joy  these  words  impart. 

A  fibre  of  my  heart  it  seems, 

A  living  thought  of  bliss, 
Sweeter  than  aught  that  fancy  dreams  ; 

My  soul's  first-born  it  is. 

I  hear  its  little  tender  sighs ; 

Its  living  voice  I  hear ; 
It  opens  now  its  little  eyes : 

Surely,  some  angel 's  near. 

My  baby  !  round  thy  precious  form 
Are  my  fond  arms  entwined,  — 

Thy  safe  retreat  from  every  storm, 
And  sorrow's  blighting  wind. 


124  LINES,   ETC. 

But  weak  my  arms  to  shelter  thee  : 
May  that  Almighty  Power, 

Who  every  future  ill  can  see. 
From  each  protect  my  flower. 

My  God  I  upon  thy  altar  now, 
My  early  offering  see : 

May  it  fulfil  my  ardent  vow. 
And  never  stray  from  thee. 


^ 


AFTER  A  DEBATE  UPON  THE  COLOR  OF  THE 
EYES  OF  AN  ELOQUENT  FRIEND. 

MarYj  you  say  his  eyes  are  blue, 

While  black,  to  me  they  seem : 
Say,  has  the  soul  a  favorite  hue, 

To  shed  its  brightest  beam  ? 

Then  does  his  soul-illumined  eye 

This  favored  hue  display ; 
For  there,  in  all  its  purity, 

Dwells  the  celestial  ray. 

To  gaze  where  such  a  lustre  glows^ 

The  dazzled  eye  declines  j 
For  who,  or  form,  or  color  knaws, 

Where  inspiration  shines. 

Then  strange  it  does  not  seem  to  me, 

That  when  they  rest  on  you. 
You  downward  look,  and  cannot  see 

If  they  are  black  or  blue. 
11* 


TO   A  FRIEND. 

O,  LET  me  soothe  thy  troubled  mind  ! 

To  thee  shall  soon  be  given 
That  joy  which  leaves  no  sting  behind; 
For  soon  thy  aching  heart  shall  find 

The  hope  which  leads  to  heaven. 

Then  shall  thy  cheek,  now  pale  with  care. 

By  sorrow's  tempests  riven, 
Assume  a  hue  more  bright,  more  fair, 
Than  earthly  joy  e'er  planted  there,  — 
The  light  which  comes  from  heaven. 

The  light  which  virtue  sheds  on  those 

Who  in  her  cause  have  striven, 
Around,  a  deathless  lustre  throws. 
And  gives  the  heart  that  sweet  repose,  — 
The  peace  which  comes  from  heaven. 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE'S  HYMN. 

My  Heavenly  Father  !  all  I  see, 

Around  me  and  above, 
Sends  forth  a  hymn  of  praise  to  thee. 

And  speaks  thy  boundless  love. 

The  clear  blue  sky  is  full  of  thee  : 
The  woods,  so  dark  and  lone, 

The  soft  south  wind,  the  sounding  sea, 
Worship  the  holy  One. 

The  humming  of  the  insect  throng, 
The  prattling,  sparkling  rill. 

The  birds,  with  their  melodious  song. 
Repeat  thy  praises  still. 

And  thou  dost  hear  them  every  one,  — 

Father,  thou  hearest  me  : 
I  know  that  I  am  not  alone. 

When  I  but  think  of  thee. 


TO  SPRING. 

Hail  !  reviving,  joyous  Spring, 

Smiling  through  thy  veil  of  showers  ! 

Birds  and  brooks  thy  welcome  sing  : 
Haste,  and  waken  all  thy  flowers. 

Hark  !  a  sweet  pervading  sound 
From  the  breathing,  moving  earth : 

Life  is  starting  all  around. 

Sending  joy  and  fragrance  forth. 

O'er  the  oak's  gigantic  form 
Blossoms  hang  their  drapery  ; 

Branches  that  defied  the  storm, 
Now  are  full  of  melody. 

There  is  not  a  silent  thing 

In  this  joyous  company  : 
Woods,  and  hills,  and  valleys  ring 

With  a  shout  of  jubilee. 

Wake,  my  spirit !  art  thou  still  ? 

Senseless  things  have  found  a  voice ; 
Shall  this  throbbing  heart  be  still, 

When  all  nature  cries,  "  Rejoice  1 " 


TO     SPRING.  129 

Memory,  with  thy  tell-tale  sigh, 

Hide  thy  wreath  of  faded  flowers  ; 
Turn  away  thy  tearful  eye ; 

Speak  not  of  departed  hours  ! 

Tell  me  not  of  broken  ties ; 

Point  not  at  the  silent  tomb  ; 
Whisper  not  that  human  joys 

Wither  amidst  nature's  bloom. 

Wake,  come  forth,  my  bounding  soul ! 

Join  the  universal  glee. 
Yield  to  nature's  kind  control, 

Catch  her  heavenly  harmony. 

Join  the  grateful,  happy  throng  5 

Cast  each  selfish  care  away ; 
Birds  and  brooks  shall  tune  your  song : 

This  is  nature's  boUday. 


ON  PRAYER. 

As  through  the  pathless  fields  of  air 
Once  wandered  forth  the  timid  dove. 

So  does  the  heart,  in  humble  prayer, 
Essay  to  reach  the  throne  of  love. 

Like  her  it  may  return  unblest ; 

Like  her  again  may  soar. 
And  still  return  and  find  no  rest, 

No  peaceful,  happy  shore. 

But  now  once  more  she  spreads  her  wings, 

And  takes  a  bolder  flight ; 
And,  see !  the  olive-branch  she  brings, 

To  bless  her  master's  sight. 

And  thus  the  heart  renews  its  strength. 
Though  spent  and  tempest-driven; 

And  higher  soars,  and  brings,  at  length, 
A  pledge  of  peace  with  heaven. 


"THE   SPIRIT  GIVETH  LIFE." 

What  was  it  in  the  viewless  wind. 
Wild  rushing  through  the  oak. 

Seemed  to  my  listening,  dreaming  mind 
As  though  a  spirit  spoke  ? 

What  is  it  to  the  murmuring  stream 

Doth  give  so  sweet  a  song, 
That  on  its  tide  my  thoughts  do  seem 

To  pour  themselves  along  ? 

What  is  it  on  the  dizzy  height, 

What  in  each  glowing  star, 
That  speaks  of  things  beyond  the  sight. 

And  questions  what  they  are  ? 

What  in  the  rolling  thunder's  voice, 

What  in  the  ocean's  roar, 
Hears  the  grand  chorus,  "  O  rejoice  !  " 

Echo  from  shore  to  shore  ? 

What  in  the  gentle  moon  doth  see 
Pure  thoughts  and  tender  love, 

And  hears  delicious  melody 
Around,  below,  above  ? 


132  "  THE    SPIRIT    GIVETH   LIFE." 

What  bids  the  savage  tempest  speak 

Of  terror  and  dismay, 
And  wakes  the  agonizing  shriek 

Of  guilt  that  fears  to  pray  ? 

It  is  this  ever-living  mind : 

This  little  throb  of  life 
Hears  its  own  echoes  in  the  wind 

And  in  the  tempest's  strife : 

To  all  that's  sweet,  and  bright,  and  fair, 

Its  own  affections  gives  ; 
Sees  its  own  image  everywhere  ; 

Through  all  creation  lives. 

It  bids  the  everlasting  hills 
Give  back  the  solemn  tone  '^ 

This  boundless  arch  of  azure  fills 
With  accents  all  its  own. 

What  is  this  life-inspiring  mind, 

This  omnipresent  thought? 
How  shall  it  ever  utterance  find 

For  all  itself  hath  taught  ? 

To  Him  who  breathed  the  heavenly  flame, 

Its  mysteries  are  known  : 
It  seeks  the  source  from  whence  it  came. 

And  rests  in  God  alone. 


"I  WILL  ARISE  AND  GO  TO  MY  FATHER." 

Help  me,  O  God,  to  trust  in  thee, 

Thou  high  and  holy  One  ! 
And  may  ray  troubled  spirit  flee, 

For  rest,  to  Thee  alone. 

In  Thee  alone  the  soul  can  find 

Secure  and  sweet  repose ; 
And  thou  canst  bid  the  desert  mind 

To  blossom  as  the  rose. 

Let  not  this  spirit,  formed  to  rise 
Where  angels  claim  their  birth. 

Forsake  its  home  beyond  the  skies. 
And  cling  to  barren  earth. 

The  bird  of  passage  knows  the  sign 

That  warns  him  to  depart : 
Shall  I  not  heed  the  voice  divine. 

That  whispers  in  my  heart,  — 
12 


134         "  I   WILL   ARISE   AND   GO    TO    MY   FATHER." 

"  Up  !  plume  thy  wing,  soar  far  away  ! 

No  longer  idly  roam  ! 
Fly  to  the  realms  of  endless  day  ; 

For  this  is  not  thy  home." 

This  still,  small  voice,  O  may  I  hear  I 
Ere  conscience  wakes  within, 

And  whispers  in  my  startled  ear 
The  certain  doom  of  sin. 

Father !  to  thee  my  spirit  cries  ! 

Thy  wandering  child  reclaim  : 
Speak !  and  my  dying  faith  shall  rise. 

And  wake  a  deathless  flame. 


WHERE   IS   THY  BROTHER! 

"  What  mean  ye,  that  ye  beat  my  people  to  pieces,  and  grind  the  faces  of  the 
poor  ?  aaith  the  Lord  God  of  hosts."— Isaiah. 

What  mean  ye,  that  ye  bruise  and  bind 

My  people  1  saith  the  Lord  ; 
And  starve  your  craving  brother's  mind, 

That  asks  to  hear  my  word  ? 

What  mean  ye,  that  ye  make  them  toil 

Through  long  and  bitter  years, 
And  shed,  like  rain  upon  your  soil. 

Their  blood  and  bitter  tears  7 

What  mean  ye,  that  ye  dare  to  rend 

The  tender  mother's  heart  ? 
Brothers  from  sisters,  friend  from  friend,  — 

How  dare  you  bid  them  part  ? 

What  mean  ye,  when  God's  bounteous  hand 

To  you  so  much  has  given. 
That,  from  the  slave  that  tills  your  land, 

You  keep  both  earth  and  heaven? 


136  WHERE     IS     THY     BROTHER? 

When  at  the  judgment  God  shall  call, 
Where  is  thy  brother?  say. 

What  mean  ye,  to  the  Judge  of  all. 
To  answer  on  that  day  ? 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  SABBATH  SONG. 

[translated  from  the  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND.] 

This  is  the  Sabbath  day  ! 
In  the  wide  field  I  am  alone. 
Hark !  now  one  morning  bell's  sweet  tone  — 

Now  it  has  died  away. 

Kneeling,  I  worship  Thee  : 
Sweet  dread  doth  o'er  my  spirit  steal, 
From  whispering  sounds  of  those  who  kneel, 

Unseen,  to  pray  with  me. 

Around  and  far  away 
So  clear  and  solemn  is  the  sky. 
It  seems  all  opening  to  my  eye : 

This  is  the  Sabbath  day ! 
12* 


REMEMBER  THE   SLAVE. 

Mother,  whene'er  around  your  child 
You  clasp  your  arms  in  love ; 

And  when,  with  grateful  joy,  you  raise 
Your  eyes  to  God  above,  — 

Think  of  the  negro  mother,  when 

Her  child  is  torn  away. 
Sold  for  a  little  slave  —  O,  then. 

For  that  poor  mother  pray. 

Father  !  whene'er  your  happy  boys 

You  look  upon  with  pride, 
And  pray  to  see  them,  when  you  're  old, 

All  blooming  by  your  side,  — 

Think  of  thai  father's  withered  heart, 

The  father  of  a  slave  — 
Who  asks  a  pitying  God  to  give 

His  little  son  a  grave. 

Brothers  and  sisters  !  who  with  joy 
Meet  round  the  social  hearth, 

And  talk  of  home  and  happy  days. 
And  laugh  in  careless  mirth,  — 


REMEMBER   THE    SLAVE.  139 

Remember,  too,  the  poor  young  slave, 

Who  never  felt  your  joy. 
Who,  early  old,  has  never  known 

The  bliss  to  be  a  boy. 

Ye  Christians  !  ministers  of  Him 

Who  came  to  make  men  free, 
When,  at  the  Almighty  Maker's  throne 

You  bend  the  suppliant  knee,  — 

From  the  deep  fountains  of  your  soul 

Then  let  your  prayers  ascend 
For  the  poor  slave,  who  hardly  knows 

That  God  is  still  his  friend. 

Let  all  who  know  that  God  is  just. 

That  Jesus  came  to  save. 
Unite  in  the  most  holy  cause 

Of  the  forsaken  slave. 


HER  VOYAGE  IS  AT  AN  END. 

Cohasset  shore^  July^  1831. 

Hushed  was  the  ocean's  stormy  roar, 

Still  as  an  infant's  joy  : 
There  sat  upon  the  rocky  shore 

A  father  and  his  boy. 

Far  off  they  saw  a  gallant  ship ; 

It  came  from  foreign  lands : 
The  boy  began  to  dance  and  skip, 

And  clap  his  little  hands. 

Her  wished-for  port  is  near  at  hand ; 

The  ship  is  hastening  on; 
They  hear  the  birds  sing  on  the  land ; 

Her  voyage  is  nearly  done. 

The  boy's  glad  notes,  his  shouts  of  glee, 

The  rocks  with  music  fill ; 
But  now  he  cries,  "  See,  father,  see  ! 

The  ship  is  standing  still." 


HER   VOYAGE    IS   AT   AN    END.  141 

Her  masts  are  trembling  from  the  shock ; 

Her  white  sails  all  descend: 
The  ship  has  struck  upon  a  rock; 

Her  voyage  is  at  an  end. 

The  sailors  hurry  to  and  fro ; 

All  crowded  is  the  deck  : 
She  struggles  hard  —  she  's  free  —  O  no  ! 

She  is  indeed  a  wreck. 

The  boy's  young  heart  is  full  of  grief: 

"  Father  !  what  will  she  do? 
Let's  take  the  boat  to  her  relief; 

Oh  !  quickly  let  us  go." 

They  went  —  and  many  a  stronger  hand 

Its  ready  succor  gave  : 
They  brought  the  crew  all  safe  to  land. 

And  the  cargo  tried  to  save. 

The  night  comes  on,  the  night  is  dark. 

More  dark  the  billows  seem; 
They  break  against  the  ship,  and,  hark ! 

The  seamew's  mournful  scream. 

The  boy  upon  his  pillow  lies ; 

In  sweet  repose  he  sinks ; 
Andj  as  he  shuts  his  weary  eyes, 

On  the  poor  ship  he  thinks. 


142  HER   VOYAGE    IS   AT  AN    END. 

The  sun  shines  o'er  the  watery  main, 

As  it  did  the  day  before ; 
The  father  and  his  son  again 

Are  seated  on  the  shore. 

With  the  western  wind  full  many  a  boat 
Their  white  sails  gayly  fill ; 

They  lightly  o'er  the  blue  waves  float ; 
But  the  gallant  ship  is  still. 

The  sailors  now  the  mournful  wreck 
Of  masts  and  rigging  strip  : 

The  waves  are  playing  o'er  the  deck 
Of  the  sad  and  ruined  ship. 

A  crow  upon  the  top  branch  stood 
Of  a  lone  and  blasted  tree  : 

He  seemed  to  look  upon  the  flood 
With  a  gloomy  sympathy. 

The  boy  now  looks  up  at  the  bird, 
At  the  sinking  vessel  now  ; 

He  does  not  speak  a  single  word. 
But  a  shade  is  on  his  brow. 

Now  slowly  comes  a  towering  wave, 
And  sweeps  with  triumph  on  ; 

It  bears  her  to  her  watery  grave,  — 
The  gallant  ship  is  gone. 


HER  VOYAGE   IS   AT   AN   END.  143 

Hushed  is  the  ocean's  stormy  roar. 

Still  as  an  infant's  joy : 
The  father  sits  upon  the  shore 

In  silence  with  his  boy. 


WE  NEVER  PART  FROM  THEE. 

God,  who  dwellest  everywhere, 
God,  who  makest  all  thy  care, 
God,  who  hearest  every  prayer. 

Thou  who  seest  the  heart, 
Thou  to  whom  we  lift  our  eyes,  — 
Father,  help  our  souls  to  rise, 
And,  beyond  these  narrow  skies, 

See  thee  as  thou  art. 

Let  our  anxious  thoughts  be  still, 
Holy  trust  adore  thy  will, 
Holy  love  our  bosoms  fill ; 

Let  our  songs  ascend. 
Dearest  friends  may  parted  be, 
All  our  earthly  treasures  flee, 
Yet  we  never  part  from  thee. 

Our  eternal  Friend. 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  PAIN. 

Cease,  my  complaining  spirit,  cease ; 
Know  'tis  a  Father^s  hand  you  feelj 
It  leads  you  to  the  realms  of  peace  ; 
It  kindly  only  wounds  to  heal. 

My  Father,  what  a  holy  joy 
Bursts  on  the  sad,  desponding  mind, 
To  say  when  fiercest  ills  annoy, 
I  know  my  Father  still  is  kind. 

This  bids  each  trembling  fear  be  still. 
Checks  every  murmur,  every  sigh : 
Patience  then  waits  his  sovereign  will. 
Rejoiced  to  live  —  resigned  to  die. 

O  blessed  ministry  of  pain. 
To  teach  the  soul  its  real  worth ; 
To  lead  it  to  that  source  again, 
From  whence  it  first  derived  its  birth. 
13 


EVENING  PRAYER. 

Great  Source  of  being, 
Father  all-seeing ! 
We  bow  before  thee  5 
Our  souls  adore  thee  5 
Help  us  obey  thee ; 
Guide  us  aright ; 
Keep  us,  we  pray  thee, 
Through  the  long  night. 

Thou  kind  forgiving 
God  of  all  living, 
Thy  power  defend  us. 
Thy  peace  attend  us. 
While  we  are  closing 
This  day  in  prayer, 
Ever  reposing 
Under  thy  care. 


EVENING. 

How  beautiful  the  setting  sun  ! 

The  clouds  how  bright  and  gay  ! 
The  stars,  appearing  one  by  one, 

How  beautiful  are  they  ! 

And  when  the  moon  climbs  up  the  sky, 

And  sheds  her  gentle  light, 
And  hangs  her  crystal  lamp  on  high. 

How  beautiful  is  night ! , 

And  can  it  be  I  am  possessed 

Of  something  brighter  far  ? 
Glows  there  a  light  within  this  breast 

Outshining  every  star  ? 

Yes  ;  should  the  sun  and  stars  turn  pale, 

The  mountains  melt  away. 
This  flame  within  shall  never  fail, 

But  live  in  endless  day. 

This  is  the  soul  that  God  has  given : 

Sin  may  its  lustre  dim, 
While  goodness  bears  it  up  to  heaven, 

And  leads  it  back  to  Him. 


THE  LORD'S  DAY. 

This  is  the  day  when  Jesus  woke 
From  the  deep  slumbers  of  the  tomb : 

This  is  the  day  the  Saviour  broke 

The  bonds  of  fear  and  hopeless  gloom. 

This  is  indeed  a  holy  day  : 
No  longer  may  we  dread  to  die  : 

Let  every  fear  be  cast  away, 

And  tears  be  wiped  from  every  eye. 

Sorrow  and  pain  the  Saviour  knew  ; 

A  dark  and  thorny  path  he  trod  j 
But  heaven  was  ever  in  his  view : 

That  toilsome  path  led  up  to  God. 

Let  every  heart  rejoice  and  sing; 

Let  every  sin  and  sorrow  cease ; 
Let  children  come  this  day  and  bring 

Their  offering  of  love  and  peace. 


EVENING   HYMN. 

Before  I  close  my  eyes  to-night, 
Let  me  myself  these  questions  ask : 

Have  I  endeavored  to  do  right, 
Nor  thought  my  duty  was  a  task  ? 

Have  I  been  gentle,  lowly,  meek, 

And  the  small  voice  of  conscience  heard  ? 
When  passion  tempted  me  to  speak, 

Have  I  repressed  the  angry  word  ? 

Have  I  with  cheerful  zeal  obeyed 
What  my  kind  parents  bid  me  do  ? 

And  not  by  word  or  action  said 

The  thing  that  was  not  strictly  true  ? 

In  hard  temptation's  troubled  hour. 

Then  have  I  stopped  to  think  and  pray, 

That  God  would  give  my  soul  the  power, 
To  chase  the  sinful  thought  away  ? 

O  Thou  who  seest  all  my  heart, 

Wilt  thou  forgive  and  love  me  still ; 

Wilt  thou  to  me  new  strength  impart. 
And  make  me  love  to  do  thy  will. 
13* 


THE  LITTLE  BOY'S  MAY-DAY   SONG. 

"The  flowers  are  blooming  everywhere. 

On  every  hill  and  dell, 
And,  O,  how  beautiful  they  are  ! 

How  sweetly,  too,  they  smell ! 

"  The  little  brooks,  they  dance  along, 

And  look  so  glad  and  gay ; 
I  love  to  hear  their  pleasant  song  j 

I  feel  as  glad  as  they. 

"  The  young  lambs  bleat  and  frisk  about ; 

The  bees  hum  round  their  hive; 
The  butterflies  are  coming  out : 
'T  is  good  to  be  alive. 

"  The  trees,  that  looked  so  stifi*  and  gray. 
With  green  wreaths  now  are  hung  : 

O  mother,  let  me  laugh  and  play ; 
I  cannot  hold  ray  tongue. 


THE    LITTLE    BOY's    MAY-DAY    SONG.  151 

"  See  yonder  bird  spread  out  his  wings, 

And  mount  the  clear  blue  skies  ; 
Andj  hark  !  how  merrily  he  sings, 

As  far  away  he  flies  !  " 


"  Go  forth,  my  child,  and  laugh  and  play, 

And  let  your  cheerful  voice, 
With  birds,  and  brooks,  and  merry  May, 

Cry  loud.  Rejoice  !  rejoice  ! 

^'  I  would  not  check  your  bounding  mirth, 

My  little  happy  boy  ; 
For  He  who  made  this  blooming  earth, 

Smiles  on  an  infant's  joy." 


HYMN  FOR  A  LITTLE  BOY. 


"  What,  mother,  makes  it  seem  to  me, 

When  I  am  all  alone, 
As  if  some  one  could  hear  and  see, 

And  all  my  thoughts  were  known  ? 


"  Sometimes  it  makes  me  very  glad, 
And  dance  and  sing  with  joy; 

Sometimes  it  makes  me  very  sad. 
And  frights  your  little  boy. 

'^  O,  tell  me,  mother,  tell  me  why  ; 

For  I  have  never  known. 
Why  'tis  I  laugh,  or  why  I  cry. 

When  I  am  all  alone." 

"  My  child,  you  never  are  alone  : 

There  is  a  watchful  eye. 
To  which  your  very  thoughts  are  known : 

'Tis  God,  is  ever  nigh.' 

"  He  made  your  little  heart  for  joy  ; 

He  tunes  your  happy  song: 
O,  then,  my  little  timid  boy. 

Fear  only  doing  wrong. 


HYMN    FOR   A   LITTLE    BOY.  153 

"  For  He  who  makes  your  heart  so  glad. 

Who  bids  the  good  be  gay, 
With  the  same  love  will  make  it  sad, 

Whene'er  you  disobey. 

"  He  is  our  Father,  and  he  hears 

Your  weakest,  faintest  prayer ; 
He  wipes  away  an  infant's  tears. 

And  children  are  his  care." 


"THE   LORD  IS   MY   STRENGTH." 

Almighty  Father  !  I  am  weak, 
But  thou  wilt  strengthen  me, 

If  from  my  heart  I  humbly  seek 
For  help  and  strength  from  thee. 

When  I  am  tempted  to  do  wrong, 

Then,  Father,  pity  me. 
And  make  my  failing  virtue  strong : 

Help  me  to  think  of  thee  ! 

Let  Christian  courage  guard  my  youth  : 

That  courage  give  to  me. 
Which  ever  speaks  and  acts  the  truth. 

And  puts  its  trust  in  thee. 


HYMN. 

Praise  to  God,  O  let  us  raise 
From  our  hearts  a  song  of  praise  ; 
Of  that  goodness  let  us  sing, 
Whence  our  lives  and  blessings  spring 

Praise  to  him  who  made  the  light ; 
Praise  to  him  who  gave  us  sight ; 
Praise  to  him  who  formed  the  ear : 
Will  he  not  his  children  hear? 

Praise  him  for  our  happy  hours ; 
Praise  him  for  our  varied  powers  ; 
For  these  thoughts  that  rise  above. 
For  these  hearts  he  made  for  love. 

For  the  voice  he  placed  within, 
Bearing  witness  when  we  sin: 
Praise  to  him  whose  tender  care 
Keeps  this  watchful  guardian  there. 

Praise  his  mercy,  that  did  send 
Jesus  for  our  guide  and  friend: 
Praise  him,  every  heart  and  voice. 
Him  who  makes  all  worlds  rejoice. 


THE  CHILD'S  WELCOME   TO   SPRING. 

Dear  mother,  guess  what  I  have  heard ! 

Oj  it  will  soon  be  Spring ; 
I  'm  sure  it  Avas  a  little  bird  : 

Mother,  I  heard  him  sing. 

Look  at  this  little  piece  of  green 

That  peeps  out  from  the  snow, 
As  if  it  wanted  to  be  seen : 

'T  will  soon  be  Spring,  I  know. 

And  O,  come  here,  come  here,  and  look  5 

How  fast  it  runs  along ! 
Here  is  a  cunning  little  brook : 

O,  hear  its  pretty  song. 

I  know  't  is  glad  the  Winter  's  gone. 

That  kept  it  all  so  still ; 
For  now  it  merrily  runs  on. 

And  goes  just  where  it  will. 

I  feel  just  like  the  brook,  I  know: 

It  says,  it  seems  to  me,  — 
"  Good  bye,  cold  weather,  ice  and  snow : 

Now  girls  and  brooks  are  free." 


THE   child's   welcome   TO    SPRING.  157 

I  love  to  think  of  what  you  said, 

Mother,  to  me  last  night. 
Of  this  great  world  that  God  has  made. 

So  beautiful  and  bright. 

And  now  it  is  the  happy  Spring, 

No  naughty  thing  I  '11  do  : 
I  would  not  be  the  only  thing 

That  is  not  happy  too. 


14 


THE   LITTLE   BOY'S   GOOD   NIGHT. 

The  sun  is  hidden  from  our  sight, 
The  birds  are  sleeping  sound  : 

'T  is  time  to  say  to  all,  "  Good  night ! " 
And  give  a  kiss  all  round. 

Good  night !  my  father,  mother  dear  ; 

Now  kiss  your  little  son  : 
Good  night,  my  friends,  both  far  and  near; 

Good  night,  to  every  one. 

Good  night !  ye  merry,  merry  birds  ; 

Sleep  well  till  morning  light : 
Perhaps,  if  you  could  sing  in  words, 

You  would  have  said,  "  Good  night  I  " 

To  all  my  pretty  flowers,  good  night  I 

You  blossom  while  I  sleep  ; 
And  all  the  stars  that  shine  so  bright, 

With  you  their  watches  keep. 

The  moon  is  lighting  up  the  skies, 
The  stars  are  sparkling  there ; 

'T  is  time  to  shut  our  weary  eyes. 
And  say  our  evening  prayer. 


THE  FIRST   BIRDS. 

Hark  !  the  little  birds  are  singing  : 
Winter's  gone,  and  Summer's  near: 

See,  the  tender  grass  is  springing, 
And  the  flowers  will  soon  be  here. 

Who  made  the  Winter  and  the  Spring  ? 

Who  painted  all  the  flowers  1 
Who  taught  the  little  birds  to  sing, 

And  made  these  hearts  of  ours  1 

O !  't  is  God  !  how  good  he  is  ! 

He  does  every  blessing  give : 
All  this  happy  world  is  his : 

Let  us  love  him  while  we  live. 


"  SUFFER  LITTLE  CHILDREN  TO  COME  UNTO  ME." 

"  Little  children,  come  to  me  : "  • 

This  is  what  the  Saviour  said  : 
Little  children,  come  and  see 

Where  these  gracious  words  are  read. 

Often  on  these  pages  look : 

Of  the  love  of  God  they  tell ; 
'T  is  indeed  a  holy  book : 

Learn  to  read  and  love  it  well. 

Thus  you  hear  the  Saviour  speak,  — 
"  Come  ye  all,  and  learn  of  me  :  " 

He  was  gentle,  lowly,  meek ; 
So  should  all  his  followers  be. 

When  our  Saviour  from  above. 

From  his  Father  did  descend, 
Folded  in  his  arms  of  love, 

Children  knew  him  for  their  friend. 

Every  little  child  he  blessed ; 

Blessed  in  innocence  they  are  ; 
Little  children  he  caressed  : 

Praise  him  in  your  infant  prayer  ! 


ON  GREENOUGH'S  GROUP  OF  THE  CHILD  AND 
ANGEL. 

Child.     Whither,  tell  me,  dost  thou  go?  * 
Angel.         "  Come  up  hither !  I  will  show  thee  ; 
Follow  me,  and  thou  shalt  know : 
Leave  the  dark,  sad  earth  below  thee." 

Child.     Stop  !  my  eyes  cannot  sustain 

Such  a  wondrous  flood  of  light. 

Angel.     "Come  up  hither;  thou  shalt  gain, 
As  thou  risest,  stronger  sight." 

Child.     Lost  in  wonder  without  end, 

Joyful,  fearful,  longing,  shrinking  — 
Lead  me,  O  thou  heavenly  friend ; 
Keep  a  trembling  child  from  sinking. 

O,  I  cannot  bear  this  glory : 

Angel  brother,  how  canst  thou  ? 
Angel.     "  I  will  tell  thee  all  my  story  : 

I  was  once  what  thou  art  now." 

*  "  Qruae  nunc  abibis  in  loca  "  is  tho  inscription  on  the  pedestal  of  the  group. 

14* 


162        GROUP  OF  THE  CHILD  AND  ANGEL. 

Child.     When  some  sorrow  did  befall  me, 
Or  I  felt  some  strange  alarms, 
Then  my  mother's  voice  would  call  me 
To  the  shelter  of  her  arms. 

Now  what  bids  my  heart  rejoice? 

Clasped  in  arms  I  cannot  see  : 
Hark !  I  hear  a  gentle  voice 

Softly  whisper,  "  Come  to  me  !  " 

Angel.     "  Yes,  it  calls  thee  from  above : 

Come  to  God's  most  holy  mountain ! 
Thou  hast  drank  the  stream  of  love ; 
I  will  bring  thee  to  the  fountain." 


ON  THE  DEATH  OP  A  YOUNG  COMPANION. 

Farewell  for  a  time  ! 

Thou  hast  gone  to  that  clime 
Where  sickness  and  sorrow  are  o'er. 

We  loved  thee  when  here, 

We  shed  the  sad  tear, 
To  think  we  shall  see  thee  no  more. 

We  weep  not  for  thee. 

We  remember  that  he 
Who  made  little  children  his  care, 

In  his  own  Father-land 

Will  reach  you  his  hand, 
And  comfort  and  welcome  you  there. 

Our  tears  they  will  flow  ; 

But  do  we  not  know 
That  thou  art  released  from  all  pain  ? 

Then  weep  not ;  for  he 

Who  walked  on  the  sea, 
Has  said  we  shall  all  live  again. 


HYMN. 

Will  God,  who  made  the  earth  and  sea, 

The  night,  and  shining  day, 
Regard  a  little  child  like  me. 

And  listen  when  I  pray? 

If  I  am  hungry,  poor,  and  cold, 

Then  will  he  hear  my  cry? 
And  when  I  shall  be  sick  and  old, 

O,  then  will  God  be  nigh  1 

Yes ;  in  his  holy  word  we  read 

Of  his  unfailing  love  ; 
And  when  his  mercy  most  we  need, 

His  mercy  he  will  prove. 

To  those  who  seek  him,  he  is  near : 

He  looks  upon  the  heart  j 
And  from  the  humble  and  sincere 

He  never  will  depart. 

He  sees  our  thoughts,  our  wishes  knows  ; 

He  hears  our  faintest  prayer : 
Where'er  the  faithful  Christian  goes, 

He  finds  his  Father  there. 


HYMN.  165 

Obedient  children  need  not  fear : 

God  is  a  faithful  friend  ; 
And  when  no  other  help  is  near, 

He  will  deliverance  send. 

Then  fear  not  hunger,  cold,  or  pain ; 

But  fear  to  disobey 
That  Power  which  does  your  life  sustain, 

And  guards  you  every  day. 


HYMN. 

It  was  my  heavenly  Father's  love 

Brought  every  being  forth  : 
He  made  the  shining  worlds  above, 

And  every  thing  on  earth  ;  — 

Each  lovely  flower,  the  smallest  fly, 

The  sea,  the  waterfall. 
The  bright  green  fields,  the  clear  blue  sky  : 

'T  is  God  that  made  them  all. 

He  gave  me  all  my  friends,  and  taught 

My  heart  to  love  them  well ; 
And  he  bestowed  the  power  of  thought, 

And  speech,  my  thoughts  to  tell. 

My  father  and  my  mother  dear,  — 

He  is  their  Father  too : 
He  bids  me  all  their  precepts  hear, 

And  all  they  teach  me,  do. 

God  sees  and  hears  me  all  the  day, 

And  'mid  the  darkest  night : 
He  views  me  when  I  disobey. 

And  when  I  act  aright. 


HYMN.  167 


He  guards  me  with  a  parent's  care, 

When  I  am  all  alone  : 
My  hymn  of  praise,  my  humble  prayer, 

He  hears  them  every  one. 

God  hears  what  I  am  saying  now  : 
O  !  what  a  wond'rous  thought! 

My  heavenly  Father,  teach  me  how 
To  love  thee  as  I  ought. 


THANKS  FOR  A  PLEASANT  DAY. 

Come,  let  us  all,  with  heart  and  voice, 
To  God  our  Father  sing  and  pray  ; 

In  his  unceasing  love  rejoice, 

And  thank  him  for  this  pleasant  day. 

The  clear  hlue  sky  looks  full  of  love  : 
Let  all  our  selfish  passions  cease  I 

0,  let  us  lift  our  thoughts  above, 
Where  all  is  brightness,  goodness,  peace. 

If  we  have  done  a  brother  wrong, 

O,  let  us  seek  to  be  forgiven  ; 
Nor  let  one  discord  spoil  the  song 

Our  hearts  would  raise  this  day  to  Heaven. 

This  blessed  day,  when  the  pure  air 
Is  full  of  sweetness,  full  of  joy,  — 

When  all  around  is  calm  and  fair, 
Shall  we  the  harmony  destroy  ? 

O,  may  it  be  our  earnest  care 

To  free  our  souls  from  every  sin : 

Then  will  each  day  be  bright  and  fair ; 
For  God's  pure  sunshine  dwells  within. 


TO  GOOD  RESOLUTIONS. 

How  like  the  morning  flower  ye  are  ! 

Which  lifts  its  diamond  head, 

Exulting  in  the  mead  : 
But  the  rude  wind  shall  steal  its  gem, 

Shall  break  its  tender  stem, 
And  leave  it  dead. 

Frail  pledges  of  the  contrite  heart. 
Wherefore  so  soon  decay  ? 
O  yet  prolong  your  stay  ! 

Until  my  soul  shall  boldly  rise. 
And   claim  its  native  skies, 
Haste  not  away. 


15 


HAPPINESS. 

What  is  it  makes  the  morning  bright  ? 

What  gilds  the  evening  hours  ? 
What  makes  our  hearts  seem  gay  and  light, 

As  if  we  trod  on  flowers  7 
'T  is  innocence  that  makes  us  gay, 

Bids  flowers  grow  everywhere  ; 
Makes  it  bright  sunshine  every  day, 

And  every  evening  fair. 

What  makes  us  when  we  look  above. 

See  smiling  angels  there. 
And  think  they  look  on  us  in  love, 

As  if  we  were  their  care  ? 
'T  is  that  the  soul,  all  free  from  sin. 

Glows  like  an  inward  sun ; 
And  heaven  above,  and  heaven  within. 

Do  meet  and  join  in  one. 


TO   A  BIRD   SINGING   IN  THE   CITY. 

Cease,  sweet  bird,  that  melting  note  ; 

Why  in  the  city  dost  thou  stay,  p 

Straining  thy  little  tuneful  throat? 

Spread  out  thy  wings  and  fly  away. 

Here  busy  tumult  thou  wilt  find. 
And  sounds  remote  from  harmony : 

The  tinkling  rill  and  whispering  wind, 
For  thee  were  fitter  company. 

When  every  worldly  wish  is  still, 

And  heavenly  thoughts  the  mind  employ, 

Thy  tender  song  was  meant  to  fill 
The  pensive  heart  with  silent  joy. 

But  here,  where  discord  reigns  around, 
'T  is  to  the  aching  truant  heart 

A  sweet  but  melancholy  sound. 
That  makes  it  flutter  to  depart. 

Although  thou  art  a  stranger  here, 
Far  from  thy  native,  favorite  grove, 

Yet  do  thy  notes,  so  strong  and  clear, 
Breathe  naught  but  happiness  and  love. 


172  TO    A   BIRD    SINGING   IN    THE    CITY. 

Teach  me,  sweet  bird,  thy  tuneful  art ; 

I  would,  like  thee,  find  all  things  fair ; 
Like  thee,  with  joyful,  loving  heart, 

I  would  make  music  everywhere. 


FOR   THE   FOURTH   OF    JULY. 

My  country,  that  nobly  could  dare 
The  hand  of  oppression  to  brave, 

O,  how  the  foul  stain  canst  thou  bear, 
Of  being  the  land  of  the  slave  1 

His  groans,  and  the  clank  of  his  chains 
Shall  rise  with  the  shouts  of  the  free. 

And  turn  into  discord  the  strains 
They  raise,  God  of  mercy,  to  thee. 

The  proud  knee  at  his  altar  we  bend. 
On  God  as  our  Father  we  call: 

We  call  him  our  Father  and  Friend, 
And  forget  he  's  the  Father  of  all. 

His  children  he  does  not  forget ; 

His  mercy,  his  power  can  save ; 
And,  sure  as  God  liveth,  he  yet 

Will  liberly  give  to  the  slave. 

O  talk  not  of  freedom  and  peace  ! 

With  the  blood  of  the  slave  on  our  sod : 
Till  the  groans  of  the  negro  shall  cease, 

Hope  not  for  a  blessing  from  God. 
15* 


174  FOR  THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY. 

He  asksj  —  am  not  I  a  man  ? 

He  pleads,  —  am  not  I  a  brother? 
Then  dare  not,  and  hope  not  you  can 

The  cry  of  humanity  smother. 

'T  will  be  heard  from  the  south  to  the  north, 
In  our  halls,  and  in  poverty's  shed : 

It  will  go  like  a  hurricane  forth. 
And  wake  up  the  living  and  dead. 

The  dead  whom  the  white  man  has  slain, 
They  cry  from  the  ground  and  the  waves  : 

They  once  cried  for  mercy  in  vain, 

They  plead  for  their  brothers  the  slaves. 

O  !  let  them  my  country  be  heard  I. 

Be  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  brave  I 
And  send  forth  the  glorious  word. 

This  is  not  the  land  of  the  slave  ! 


CHILDREN  IN    SLAVERY. 

When  children  play  the  livelong  day, 

Like  birds  and  butterflies  ; 
As  free  and  gay,  sport  life  away, 

And  know  not  care  nor  sighs  : 
Then  earth  and  air  seem  fresh  and  fair, 

All  peace  below,  above  : 
Life's  flowers  are  there,  and  everywhere 

Is  innocence  and  love. 

When  children  pray  with  fear  all  day, 

A  blight  must  be  at  hand  : 
Then  joys  decay,  and  birds  of  prey 

Are  hovering  o'er  the  land : 
When  young  hearts  weep  as  they  go  to  sleep, 

Then  all  the  world  seems  sad  : 
The  flesh  must  creep,  and  woes  are  deep 

When  children  are  not  glad. 


MUSINGS   IN  THE  NIGHT. 

When,  in  the  silence  of  the  night, 
Through  all  the  dazzling  fields  of  light, 
My  spirit  takes  her  trackless  flight, 
And  rises  freer  than  the  wind. 
Leaving  my  house  of  clay  behind,  — 
Methinks  on  this  small  spot  of  earth. 
Where  loving  parents  hailed  my  birth, 
I  look  with  tenderness  and  love  ; 
And  thus  I  moralize  above : 

Dear  native  home  !  seen  from  afar, 
Thou  lookest  like  a  twinkling  star. 
Where  are  the  sins  that  stain  thy  breast? 
The  sorrows  that  disturb  thy  rest? 
The  restless  tide  of  misery  here, 
No  longer  murmurs  on  my  ear; 
But,  calmly  hanging  on  the  air. 
And  all  so  still,  and  bright  and  fair. 
Thou  lookest  like  a  thing  of  light. 
Lending  thy  glories  to  the  night. 
And  as  the  solemn  hymn  I  hear. 
Which  ever  rolls  from  sphere  to  sphere. 


MUSINGS    IN    THE    NIGHT.  177 

Methinks  you  join  the  rapturous  song  ; 

Each  hallelujah  you  prolong 

To  Him,  the  holy  One,  whose  voice 

Bade  all  these  worlds  of  light  rejoice. 

And  is  this  holy,  happy  sight, 

A  visionary,  fleeting  light? 

And  did  my  dreaming  fancy  raise 

That  long,  resounding  note  of  praise  ? 

And  is  the  earth  one  scene  of  woe, 

And  misery  and  guilt  ?  O,  no ! 

That  love  which  said,  "  Let  there  be  light !  " 

That  love  which  parted  day  and  night, 

With  undiminished  glory,  still 

Sends  its  broad  beams  from  hill  to  hill ; 

Still  sheds  its  pure,  benignant  rays 

On  those  who  scoff  and  those  who  praise. 

Thus,  when  our  spirits  take  their  flight. 

And  walk  among  the  fields  of  light. 

We  learn  that  what  seemed  discord  here, 

Is  music  to  a  heavenly  ear: 

That  darkness,  sorrow,  doubt,  and  care, 

Are  lost  in  joy  and  brightness  there  : 

That  sin  destroys  itself  and  dies, 

While  holy  thoughts  and  actions  rise, 

And  shine  immortal  in  the  skies.  • 


LINES  WRITTEN   ON   THE   CATSKILL. 

HerEj  far  above  the  noise  and  strife, 
The  dust  and  tumult  of  this  life. 
Many  a  pilgrim  foot  shall  roam  ; 
Many  a  worshipper  shall  come  : 
For  mountain  tops  are  holy  ground. 
'T  is  here  the  unseen  God  is  found  : 
E'en  they  who  come  to  laugh  and  play, 
Shall  stop  to  think,  and  learn  to  pray. 
The  winds  that  on  this  summit  sing. 
Ne'er  breathed  before  on  earthly  thing. 
Hush  !  utter  no  unhallowed  word  : 
This  is  the  temple  of  the  Lord. 
But  see,  around  its  awful  brow. 
Clouds  have  hung  their  drapery  now  ; 
Seas  of  mist  without  a  shore, 
Is  all  the  wearied  eyes  explore. 
A  little  while,  and  on  our  sight, 
The  sun  will  break  in  floods  of  light : 
Beh«ld  the  curtain  slowly  rise  ! 
Disclosing  to  our  wondering  eyes, 
A  world  all  glowing  at  our  feet, 
With  hue  as  bright,  and  smile  as  sweet, 


LINES   WRITTEN    ON    THE    CATSKILL.  179 

As  when  from  chaos  first  awoke, 

It  into  life  and  beauty  broke. 

Who  would  not  bear  a  stormy  day. 

To  see  the  tempest  break  away  ? 

Who  would  not  to  the  mountain  go,  ^ 

To  see  this  glorious  scene  below ; 

And  with  the  mountain  spirit  hold 

Communion  sweet,  but  all  untold? 

For  they  who  feel  it  most,  will  own 

It  dwells  within  the  heart  alone ; 

In  rapture  that  finds  language  weak ; 

In  gladness  all  too  full  to  speak. 


LEARNED   FRED. 

[from   the   GERMAN.] 

One  short  six  months  had  scarcely  gone. 
When  full  of  all  he  M  learned. 

Young  Frederick,  that  hopeful  son, 
From  College  home  returned. 

To  his  paternal  roof  restored, 

It  was  not  long  before 
The  learned  man  at  table  poured 

The  treasures  of  his  lore. 

"Now,"  said  the  youngster,  "Father  dear, 

You  doubtless  think  you  see 
Two  roasted  fowls  before  us  here : 

But  I  say,  there  are  three. 

"  Atqui  these  roasted  fowls  are  two, 

And  one  in  two  must  be : 
Ergo  —  or  logic  is  not  true,  — 

These  roasted  fowls  are  three." 


LEARNED    FRED.  181 

'^  God  bless  your  studies  !  "  quoth  papa ; 

"  'T  is  just  as  you  have  said  : 
^This  is  for  me,  that  for  mamma, 

The  third  for  learned  Fred." 


16 


TO  A   FOUNTAIN. 

[from  the   GERMAN   OF   RAMLER.] 

Lo !  this  fount  is  flowing  ever ; 
But  the  fountain  prattles  never : 
Traveller!  at  this  fountain  stay; 
Learn  of  it,  with  pure  endeavor, 
Good  to  do,  and  nothing  say. 


THE   CAPTIVE  EAGLE. 

Hail,  noble  captive  !  king  of  birds  ! 

What  tongue  can  tell  thy  misery ! 
Were  thy  dumb  sorrow  put  in  words. 

What  heart  that  would  not  pity  thee  ? 

Undazzled  to  the  orb  of  day 

Thine  eye  of  light  looks  up  in  vain: 

It  cannot  melt  thy  chains  away  : 
Thou  never  shalt  be  free  again. 

Flap  thy  broad  wings,  spend  all  thy  strength  ; 

Scream  on,  poor  bird  !  you  idly  rave : 
That  royal  crest  shall  droop  at  length  ; 

For  thou  art  doomed  to  be  a  slave. 

Thou  look'st  up  to  the  hollow  skies, 

Where  thou  hast  wound  thy  spiral  flight,  — 

Those  azure  depths  where  human  eyes 
Shrink  from  the  intolerable  light. 

Thou  gazest  till  thou  dost  forget 

The  weight  and  pressure  of  thy  chain  ; 

And,  upward  striving,  thinkest  yet 

Thy  bright  blue  home  thou  shalt  regain. 


184  THE    CAPTIVE   EAGLE. 

Vain  is  thy  spirit's  eager  bound, 
And  all  in  vain  thy  noble  birth  ; 

Fettered  thou  liest  on  the  ground, 
A  clod-boundj  common  thing  of  earth. 

My  heart  aches  for  thee,  noble  bird ! 

Fain  would  I  free  thee,  if  I  could  5 
But  more  it  longs  to  hear  that  word 

Which  endeth  human  servitude. 

I  have  no  right  to  waste  on  thee. 
Poor  thing  !  the  power  of  sympathy : 

Forgetful  of  the  agony  ' 

Of  human  hearts  in  slavery. 


LITTLE   ROLAND. 

[translated  from  the  GERMAN  OF   UHLAND.] 

Lady  Bertha  sat  in  the  rocky  cleft. 

Her  bitter  woes  to  weep  : 
Little  Roland  played  in  the  free  fresh  air; 

His  sorrows  were  not  deep. 

"  My  royal  brother,  O  King  Charles, 

Why  did  I  fly  from  thee  ! 
Splendor  and  rank  I  left  for  love ; 

Now  thou  art  wroth  with  me. 

"  O  Milon,  Milon,  husband  dear  ! 

Beneath  the  waves  art  thou : 
For  love  I  have  forsaken  all ; 

Yet  love  forsakes  me  now. 

"  O  Roland  !  thou  ray  dearest  boy. 

Now  fame  and  love  to  me ; 
Come  quickly,  little  Roland,  come  ! 

My  hope  rests  all  on  thee. 
16* 


186  LITTLE     ROLAND. 

"  Go  to  the  city,  Roland,  go  ! 

To  beg  us  meat  and  bread  ; 
And  whoso  gives  the  smallest  gift, 

Ask  blessings  on  his  head." 

Now  great  King  Charles  at  table  sat. 

In  the  golden  hall  of  state : 
With  dish  and  cup  the  servants  ran. 

On  the  noble  guests  to  wait. 

Flute,  harp,  and  minstrelsy  now  tune 

All  hearts  to  joyful  mood  : 
The  cheerful  music  does  not  reach 

To  Bertha's  solitude. 

Before  the  hall  in  the  court-yard  sat 

Of  beggars  a  motley  throng : 
The  meat  and  drink  was  more  to  them 

Than  flute,  and  harp,  and  song. 

The  king  looked  out  through  the  open  door. 

Upon  the  beggar  throng  : 
Through  the  crowd  he  saw  a  noble  boy. 

Pushing  his  way  along. 

Strange  was  the  little  fellow's  dress; 

Of  divers  colors  all : 
But  with  the  beggars  he  would  not  stay ; 

He  looked  up  at  the  hall. 


LITTLE    EOLAND.  187 

Within  the  hall  little  Roland  treads, 

As  though  it  were  his  own  : 
He  takes  a  dish  from  the  royal  board 

In  silence,  and  is  gone. 

The  king  he  thinks  —  what  do  I  see? 

This  is  a  curious  way  ; 
But,  as  he  quietly  submits. 

The  rest  do  nothing  say. 

In  a  little  while  again  he  comes : 

To  the  king  he  marches  up; 
And  little  Roland  boldly  takes 

The  royal  golden  cup- 

"  Halloa !  stop  there  !  thou  saucy  wight !  " 

King  Charles's  voice  did  ring: 
Little  Roland  kept  the  golden  cup. 

And  looked  up  at  the  king. 

The  king  at  first  looked  angrily ; 

But  very  soon  he  smiled  : 
"  You  tread  here  in  our  golden  hall, 

As  in  the  green  woods  wild, 

"  From  the  royal  table  you  take  a  dish. 

As  they  take  an  apple  from  a  tree  ; 
As  with  the  waters  of  the  brook. 

With  my  red  wine  you  make  free." 


188  LITTLE     EOLAND. 

"  The  peasant  drinks  from  the  running  brook; 

On  apples  she  may  dine  : 
My  mother  must  have  fish  and  game, 

For  her  is  the  foaming  wine." 

"  Is  thy  mother  such  a  noble  dame 
As  thou,  my  boy,  dost  boast, — 

Then,  surely,  has  she  a  castle  fair, 
And  of  vassals  a  stately  host. 

"  Tell  me,  who  may  her  sewer  be  ? 

And  who  cup-bearer  too  ?  " 
"My  own  right  hand  her  sewer  is  ; 

My  left,  cup-bearer  true." 

"  Tell  on  ;  who  are  her  faithful  guards  1 " 

^'My  two  blue  eyes  alway." 
"  Tell  on  ;  who  is  her  minstrel  free  ?  " 

"  My  rosy  mouth,  I  say." 

"  Brave  servants  has  the  dame,  indeed; 

But  does  strange  livery  choose,  — 
Made  up  of  colors  manifold. 

Shining  with  rainbow  hues." 

"  From  each  quarter  of  the  city, 
With  eight  boys  I  have  fought: 

Four  sorts  of  cloth  to  the  conqueror, 
As  tribute,  they  have  brought." 


LITTLE    ROLAND.  189 

"  The  best  of  servants,  to  my  mind, 

The  dame's  must  surely  be  : 
She  isj  I  wot,  the  beggar's  dueen. 

Who  keeps  a  table  free. 

"  The  noble  lady  should  not  far 

From  my  royal  palace  be  : 
Arise,  three  ladies,  and  three  lords ! 

And  bring  her  in  to  me." 

Little  Roland,  holding  fast  the  cup, 

From  the  splendid  hall  he  hies : 
To  follow  him,  at  the  king's  command, 

Three  lords,  three  ladies,  rise. 

And  after  now  a  little  while. 

The  king  sees,  far  away. 
The  noble  ladies  and  the  knights 

Return  without  delay. 

The  king  he  cries  out  suddenly,  — 

"  Help,  Heav'n  !  see  I  aright  ? 
'T  is  my  own  blood,  in  open  hall, 

I  have  treated  with  cruel  slight. 

"  Help,  Heav'n  !  in  pilgrim  dress  I  see 

My  sister  Bertha  stand  5 
So  pale  in  my  gay  palace  here, 

A  beggar's  staff  in  her  hand  !  " 


190  LITTLE    ROLAND. 

Lady  Bertha  sinks  down  at  his  feet, 

Pale  image  of  despair : 
His  wrath  returns,  and  he  looks  on  her 

With  a  stern  and  angry  air. 

Lady  Bertha  quick  cast  down  her  eyes ; 

No  word  to  speak  she  tried  : 
Little  Roland  raised  his  clear  blue  eyes,  - 

"  My  Uncle  !  "  loud  he  cried. 

"Rise  up,  my  sister  Bertha,  rise  !  " 

The  king  said  tenderly  : 
"  For  the  sake  of  this  dear  son  of  thine. 

Thou  shalt  forgiven  be." 

Lady  Bertha  rose  up  joyfully  : 
"Dear  brother!  thanks  to  thee  : 

Little  Roland  shall  requite  the  boon 
Thou  hast  bestowed  on  me. 

"He  of  the  glory  of  his  king 

Shall  be  an  image  fair: 
The  colors  of  many  a  foreign  realm 

His  banner  and  shield  shall  bear. 

"  The  cup  from  many  a  royal  board 
He  shall  seize  with  his  free  right  hand, 

And  safety  and  fresh  glory  bring 
To  his  sighing  mother-land." 


THE   EXILED   STRANGER. 

Hark  !  what  sweetly  solemn  sound 

Rises  on  the  morning  air? 
Shedding  gentle  peace  around, 

And  stilling  busy  earthly  care. 

The  mighty  city  holds  its  breath, 

As  the  sacred  music  swells  ; 
And  discord  dies  a  transient  death, 

While  listening  to  those  Sabbath  bells. 

Hearts  that  had  forgot  to  pray, 
Eyes  that  had  been  fixed  below, 

Now  look  to  Heaven,  and  ask  the  way. 
As  to  the  house  of  God  they  go. 

But  there  is  one  who  hears  those  notes, 
To  whom  like  angels'  songs  they  seem  ; 

O'er  whose  glad  soul  the  music  floats. 
Like  memory  of  a  youthful  dream ;  — 

Far  from  his  well-loved  father-land, 
From  early  friends,  and  blessed  home, 

Chased  by  the  tyrant's  bloody  hand. 
An  exiled  stranger,  doomed  to  roam : 


192  THE    EXILED    STRANGER. 

In  freedom's  land  a  home  to  find, 
He  hastens  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea, 

Leaving  each  youthful  joy  behind, 
And  asking  only  to  be  free. 

And  now  the  blessed  tones  he  hears 
Of  those  soft,  soothing  Sabbath  bells  ; 

And  as  the  shore  the  vessel  nears. 

More  full  and  strong  the  anthem  swells. 

And  as  he  hears  the  solemn  sound, 
He  leaps  with  rapture  on  the  shore  : 

He  feels  he  stands  on  holy  ground ; 
Feels  that  his  perils  all  are  o'er. 

And  see,  amidst  the  gazing  crowd. 
Unheeding  all,  he  's  kneeling  there : 

To  the  free  earth  his  head  is  bowed  ; 
His  full  rapt  soul  is  lost  in  prayer. 

That  prayer  shall  not  be  breathed  in  vain  ; 

Nor  vain  the  sacrifice  he  made: 
There  is  a  Hand  will  give  again 

The  wreath  that 's  on  his  altar  laid. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
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